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*§» «<» «t* «i» 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898, 

By Nancy McKay Gordon, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


IWQ COPfES* stctlVuD* 



CHICAGO: 

A. L. FYFE, PRINTER. 334. DEARBORN ST. 
1898. 


LV-U'TW 


DEDICATION. 


To the $u>eete$t Mother in all the world, I dedicate my little 
volume. Hoping, as the “snows of winter” crown 
her head, this song of the sun may cause eternal 
youth and fadeless roses, to blossom in her heart. 


PREFACE. 


There is nothing new to be written. Since the 
author of this little book, first took upon herself 
the writing down of the following pages it has 
been borne strongly upon her, that all the wisdom 
of the Ages, is concentrated and mobilized in the 
sayings of Jesus the Christ, in the Sermon on the 
Mount. All that may or can be said on the ideal- 
istic line of thought, must be garnered from it. 

The writer does not claim to set forth any line 
of thought, neither Occultism, Mysticism, Christian 
Science, nor indeed the doctrines of any of the 
Metaphysical Schools. Nor claims for it any prac- 
tical purpose. 

It is simply a setting to words of some idealistic 
experiences of many years ago, which have lent 
their charm and influence toward making her own 
life practical and beneficial, in the many lines of 
life in which she is called to work. 

Its purpose is not mentioned, it being unknown 
to her. But it is graciously offered to the public, 
hoping it may speak to some aching heart; may 
chance to inspire a struggling soul to reach the 
Mountain top. 

Its theme and motif, “ Come up Higher” speaks 
for itself throughout the book. 

Nancy McKay Gordon. 


PROLOGUE. 


Chapter I, A Traveler. 

Chapter II, Dreams. 

PART FIRST. 

THE JOURNEY OF A SOUL. 

Chapter I, At the Gates of Paradise. 

Chapter II, Wandering and Waiting Souls. 

Chapter III, Behold, the Circular City — Beginning 
of the Journey. 

Chapter IV, The Bridgeless River. 

Chapter V, The Building of the “Golden Bridge” 
— The Pontifex Maximus. 

Chapter VI, At the Foot of the Mountain — The 
Bungalow in Plain Sight — The Call “Come up 
Higher” is heard. 

Chapter VII, Obeys the Call — Reaches the Top of 
the Mountain — Stands before the Veil of Isis! 

Chapter VIII, Rending of the Veil. 

Chapter IX, A Vision at the Entrance — The Angel 
of Fire ! 

Chapter X, Angel of the Air — Angel of the Earth. 

Chapter XI, Angel of the Water — End of Journey. 

Chapter XII, Recognition — The Perfect Marriage. 

Chapter XIII, Silence ! Silence ! — The Return to 
Earth. 


PART SECOND. 


A MEMORY OF A SOUL. 

Chapter I, Memory Awakens! 

Chapter II, The Dreamer Views an Ancient City. 

Chapter III, She Recognizes the Vestal of the 
Temple — Oh, thou Sun Symbol of God, We 
claim from Thee Life ! 

Chapter IV, Fire — The Life of Being — The Im- 
mortal and Existent. 

Chapter V, Under the Acacia Tree — Glimpses of 
the Temple. 

Chapter VI, Exterior View of the Temple — Des- 
cription of the Gods and their Functions. 

Chapter VII, The Dreamer stands at the Entrance 
of the Holy of Holies. 

Chapter VIII, The Three Altars — The Blood Red 
Cross — Ideal Relations of the True Man and 
Woman. 

Chapter IX, Music of the Temple— Choral Pro- 
cession — Music is God’s chosen Muse. 

Chapter X, Farewell hymn to the Sun! 

Chapter XI, The Censer of Entwined Fish — The 
Dreamer recognizes the Waiting Soul, in the 
High Priest Osiris — Invocation to the setting 
Sun. 

Chapter XII, Isis — The lone Watcher — Invocation 
to the “ Holy Night.” 

Chapter XIII, Midnight — The Chamber of Isis, 
The last of a Race of Sibyls — Whose Warning 
was unheeded. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter XIV, Final Interview of Isis and Osiris — 
The Warning again given. 

Chapter XV, The Farewell — Isis Sleeps. 

Chapter XVI, Secret Conclave of the Three — The 
Sun rises heavy and sodden — The strange 
Vibration. 

Chapter XVII, Isis Alone — The call of the Acolyte 
“Come up Higher” — Her last cry to Osiris. 

Chapter XVIII, The call of Osiris “I Come! I 
Come!” — The finishing of the Vision — The 
Women Awakes! 


























.. 












































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































PROLOGUE. 


Her Bungalow. 


CHAPTER I. 

A TRAVELER. 

I T was the Yule time. Traveling West- 
ward, and alone, a Woman gazes dreamily 
from the car window. Shapely in form, 
she is in the luxurious bloom of life, 
with the meridian sun shining directly 
over her head. The first glory-flush of the 
morning; the sunshine and shadow of the 
later forenoon are alike of the swiftly dim- 
ming past. But the golden future, wreathed 
with its never-ending supply of unfailing 
life, stretches on and on before her, into the 
realms of infinitude and eternity. 

The hands on the dial of her life, had 
turned toward the setting sun. The King 
of Day hangs radiantly over the horizon; 
casting its shadows, without which, there 


2 Her Bungalow. 

is neither perception of form, nor thought 
progression. Thus, we find her, facing the 
lambent flame of the sinking orb ; its 
brilliant glare, falling, oft-times blindingly 
before her. 

The Woman is leaving behind her all 
the allurements of a Southern Winter. 
The enchantment of its languor ; its temp- 
tation to fold one’s hands and dream; its 
soft breezes laden with the breath of violets ; 
the musical cadences of its birds ; its old 
time lullabies, each and all whisper its own 
secret, to her sensitive and impassioned 
soul. Out of the misty past, there also 
flares up a picture of a fascinating, dream- 
breeding wood fire, with all its suggestive- 
ness of comfort and sufficiency. The 
sparks fly hither and yon. As she watches 
them, a Voice, as that of a beloved 
instructor, whispers from the World of 
Silence : 

“ Each spark contains the flame con- 
sciousness belonging to every soul, which 
evolves finally into manifestation. In it, 


An Adamian D)emory. 3 

and under all, rests the eternal essence, 
the never-dying flame, which once lighted, 
bridges the Eternal Past to the Eternal 
Future. 

“Oh, thou Life Existent! Oh, thou 
Soul of Fire! 

“Thou art the only true Way, the Infi- 
nite God ! 

“Oh, thou Angel of Fire, manifest thy- 
self in this soul ! Let each spark represent 
to her an endless torch ; a glittering star 
in her coronet, indicating the splendor, in 
the unfolding of Creative Thought ! The 
Mighty Spirit of the Flame has no destruc- 
tive essential within itself. But it holds all 
power, by Divine commission, to create the 
light that glorifies and uplifts everything 
that it shines upon. Thou, oh Soul, art 
not yet conscious of thy own subtle 
splendor ! Arise ! Mighty Ego of the Past, 
and shine by thine own Light! ” 

The Voice lost itself in the rumbling 
motion of the rapidly moving train. 

The Woman is leaving a circle of warm 


4 


Her Bungalow. 

hearts. Each heart is a pearl in her neck- 
lace of life, a memorial of the ages. This 
priceless string of jewels, is the only link 
binding her to the home of her babyhood, 
her childhood, and her girlhood. 

Unconsciously, during this period of 
life, she passed in and out of this circle of 
hearts, with power undreamed of, teaching 
them the art of living and of loving. All 
had leaned upon her and constantly looked 
toward her for help and strength, which 
was given as freely as the waters flow from 
the Fountain of Life. 

But the farewells had been said. The 
“ sweet sorrow of parting ” was resting 
upon her. She had lingered a moment, 
just a moment, and upon the retina of mem- 
ory was forever fixed the impress of a 
group gathering about her, as the roses 
cluster on their stalk, in all the oneness of 
being and harmony of expression. 

The snapping of ties, sure to come to 
all, came to this woman in early maturity. 
She had then, sought the more energetic 


5 


fin fltlantian DJemory. 

North. Not for the purpose of satisfying 
the cravings of ambition, but because it 
offered a broader field of action for those 
with whom she had cast her lot. In her 
largeness of heart, and guileless inexperi- 
ence, she had faced bravely, blindly and 
with unquestioning serenity, the hardships, 
cold and withering winds of the northwest. 

A transplanted rose from her own 
balmy South ! The rough winds of the 
wild prairie, soon kissed the bloom from 
her cheeks. The harsh climate, stole from 
her hair the silkiness and gloss, which 
are the birthright and inheritance of 
the woman of the Southland. But her 
physique, had lost none of its roundness, 
nor its vitality of youth. Her face retains 
the brilliant and radiant expression of its 
patrician contour. It could not be other- 
wise, for are not these last the mirroring of 
the brave, generous soul which inspired 
her, in all her movements and thoughts ? 

The wistful, pleading look of her eyes, 
sometimes in moments of restfulness, 


6 Her Bungalow. 

betrayed the story of her life with its over- 
crowded and bewildering experience. The 
two cups of existence, Pleasure and Sorrow, 
held alternately to her lips, acting and 
re-acting, the one upon the other, had left 
ineffaceable impress upon her face. When 
one was filled to the brim, the other was 
drained to the dregs. 

Her eyes had lost none of their wonted 
brightness. But had gained in soulfulness, 
as she began to awake from the long sleep 
of the immature. Her hitherto, sleeping 
soul was aroused from its inertness, by the 
vivifying power of Truth perceived. The 
awakening was upon her! Ah, who can 
ever forget the first realization of the bless- 
edness of daybreak ? There are dawns and 
dawns. To every child of earth, comes 
sometime, somewhere, a flash of beauty; 
the first glimpse of the Light that shines 
neither on land nor sea; the light that 
illumines the horrors of a darksome night! 
The dormant years of blind duty are 
unveiling; transfigured under the Light of 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 7 

the Ages, which is fast brightening the 
horizon of a more perfect living. 

Thus alive and quivering, with the 
touch of the Infinite upon her, she holds 
the power to meet, to face, to dare and to 
conquer. 

But is she simply traveling Westward? 
Or is she in search of a Guide? Is the 
Guru, even now, coming towards her; he 
who is to her a shining star by night ; by 
day, a companion ever near, and who holds 
aloft the cross of self-sacrifice, which to 
both teacher and pupil symbolizes the Love 
of the Ages? 

After centuries of rest and preparation, 
the hour of blossoming has come. The 
soul strong in the consciousness of its own 
power, ^as stepped forward firmly, into the 
path whose gate swings ever inward and 
never outward; from its narrow limits, no 
traveler ever turns back. To enter upon 
this path, is to walk straight ahead, with 
the full knowledge and perception of steep, 
rocky and barren mountains to climb; of 


8 


Her Bungalow. 

green-verdured valleys to cross ; and of 
dangerously, swift-flowing rivers to ford. 
With the pictured restfulness of the valley, 
in her soul ; the surging of the deep river 
sounding in her ears ; the top of the moun- 
tain in plain sight; she closes her eyes, 
leans her head against the cushioned seat, 
and letting go of all else, drifts on and on, 
whither, how, where and when? Whither? 
To meet the Waiting Soul. How? On 
the wings of desire made strong by aspira- 
tion for high purposes. Where? In the 
realms of All-Knowledge. When? In the 
everlasting and ever-present Now. 

The train rattled monotonously forward 
to its goal. The day wore on. The 
Woman slept. 


CHAPTER II. 


A S she slept, she dreamed. Dream- 
ing, she rose out of the state of 
self-consciousness, entering upon 
the first phase of her real, ideal 
soul life. There she beholds for herself, 
her nearness to Idealism. 

Dreaming is an art, to be developed by 
training one’s own powers of consciousness. 
Dreams are the gateways, by and through 
which we enter into the joys of Paradise; 
or into the horrors of an Inferno. 

Imagination, is an attribute of the soul. 
Thus it becomes one of the powers of the 
mind, by which forms are developed in the 
thought realm, and their changeful exist- 
ence expressed on the plane of materializa- 
tion. As the Thought of the Omnipotent, 
coiled in the first germ cell, was the cause 
and beginning of the Universe, so man’s 
imagining, or imagination, is the beginning 
of all that has ever been produced, or 


10 Her Bungalow. 

brought to the knowledge of personal sense. 
Dreams are the result of mental action; 
being either productive or unproductive, as 
man wills. The moment man begins to 
dwell upon an idea shaped in the land of 
essential vapors, the potency of the thought 
commences to draw to the shape, solidity 
and incipient vitality. The germ cell 
moves toward the assertion of its own 
entity. The unfolding of Creative Thought 
has begun. But if that which comes to the 
dreamer, sleeping or waking, passes out of 
the dreamer’s mind without attention, it 
moves on, once more to the formless condi- 
tion. Thus, it is ready for the use of some 
other, more forceful dreamer’s mental 
action. 

Dreams are the product of imagination. 
The faculty of dreaming, rightly cultivated, 
will bring into realization anything that 
thought can touch, or mind can comprehend. 
Thus, if the seed of imagination is sown in 
good ground and cultivated under the direc- 
tion of the Higher Will, our dreams, sleep- 


/In /Itlantian Ittcmory. 11 

in g or waking, will be realized in the reap- 
ing of whole fields of golden grain, with few, 
very few tares therein. These tares can 
and must be rooted out, according to the 
bond of the Ages. Kabalistically expressed, 
dreams are the perfecting and finishing of 
the physical vision, that is, the physical 
vision has then reached the utmost verge 
and scope of its power. 

Here we find the waiting sentinel, who, 
if we have the password, unlocks the gates 
into the realms of Infinite perception. 
Here, also we perceive according to the 
limit of our evolvment. The Sentinel, to 
the Soul, is grizzled and gray from the 
weight of centuries; or he is bright and 
beauteous with the radiance of Perpetual 
Youth. This perception is but the reflec- 
tion from the tressle-board of our own soul- 
building. 

Our Dreamer sleeps heavily. She is 
throwing off, into the ether from whence it 
came, the surplus vitality with which the 
lower consciousness is surcharged. 


12 Her Bungalow. 

Thus, unguarded and irresponsible, the 
Warder, yielding to the solicitation of the 
Dweller within, flings wide open the gates 
of the spiritual brain, and the Soul steals 
swiftly out. With an eagle’s poise for 
flight, rising, rising, like unto a luminous 
ball the manifested loses itself, as if by 
fusion, in the bright glory of the Unman- 
ifested. 

From the apex of the upper triangle, 
the Higher Self of the Dreamer soars as on 
mighty wings, above and beyond the Sea 
of Mundanity. As the star of her being 
and existence, it hangs over the sleeping 
physical ; as ages before, the Star of Beth- 
lehem poised itself over the manger, where 
lay the Lord of the two worlds — the un- 
crowned King of Glory. As that Star has 
become to the world the symbol of Peace, 
Hope, Love and transmutation of the low- 
est into the highest, so to the Dreamer 
comes wonderful memories of the past, 
marvellous re-vealmeuts and promises of 
the Future. Wherever falls the light of 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 13 

this Star of Bethlehem, there, the old 
becomes new. The shadows of the Past 
merge into the brightness of the Future. 

Impelled by a call, continuons and irre- 
sistable, the unfettered soul rises higher 
and higher. It seeks to penetrate with the 
aid of its guide and mentor, the mystery of 
the marvellous journey of the soul’s quest 
for Freedom. 

A little struggle; a little yielding to 
the call: “Come up Higher”! Then a 
pictured vision of many lives ; a panorama 
of brilliant light and intense shade bursts 
upon the inner perception of the Sleeper. 

In full consciousness, she has entered 
the Realm of Dreams. This is the manner 
of the Unveiling. 



PART FIRST. 

THE JOURNEY OF A SOUL. 


CHAPTER I. 

B EHIND the limitless Gates of Para- 
dise, two angels stand, resignedly. 
They wait, rapt in the hush and 
quiet of a heavenly morn. The 
Gates are closed and barred. All that can 
disturb, jar or harass, rolls up against the 
outer surface of these ponderous barriers, 
only to be beaten back. Neither their for- 
ward rush, nor retreat leaves any terror of 
illusion, nor quivering tremor of fear to the 
restful poise within. Like unto waves 
dashing themselves into pieces against a 
rock-bound coast, all that is harmonious, is 
forever held by the still small Voice of 
God: 

“Thus far and no farther!” 

Man’s thought cannot conceive of the 


/in fltlnntian IDemory. 15 

beauty, liarmony, repose and strength, 
which lay in the boundaries of this Garden 
of Paradise. It is here, that the full cup of 
real pleasure is drained to the last, clear 
drop. Here is also found the restful enjoy- 
ment of peace, that knows no atom of 
bitterness. 

Not a discordant element is even needed, 
to deepen the shadows. Discord is of the 
darkness, and there is no darkness in Par- 
adise. Here is the home of the mellow 
light, by which the soul perceives itself. 
The innate radiance softens all angles of 
outline, and subdues into an exquisite 
expression of perfection every detail of an 
Immortal picture, upon which no mortal 
eye hath ever looked. Helpfulness, the 
tender compassion for one’s fellows, is an 
ever present feeling, in this gathering 
throng of beings who never jostle one 
against the other. 

On its spotless shore is found the hand 
that wipes away all tears ; the love that 
cheers all sorrow-burdened hearts. The 


16 


Her Bungalow. 

far-reaching ray of the Invisible, mirrors 
itself on the visible. The most delicately 
outlined forms; the most exquisite blend- 
ing of color; the sweetest fragrance; the 
music of Nature’s orchestra, fill all space. 
No room for discord. In Paradise Love 
reigns supreme. 

Through these scenes of perfect beauty, 
messengers are ever flitting whose earnest 
wish is to uplift and unbind, the yet earthly 
imprisoned souls. Their longing eyes look 
only to the supernal evolvment, attainment 
of which, can be reached but by one’s own 
persistent effort, and the willing help of 
those who wait. 

By long residence, the two lingering 
Souls are familiar with such scenes of rest 
and acquirement. The Great Angel, the 
Watcher at the Gate, has summoned these, 
one in two, and asks : 

“Oh, thou dually manifested Soul! 
Art thou ready to take up, once more, the 
burden of earth life ? ” 

As if with a single voice, comes answer 
from the Twain : 


17 


fin iUlantian Memory. 

“ In rest and in activity, we seek but to 
do the WILL of the Omnipotent God, who 
is Love. His will is our will. We but 
hear thy words, as His messenger, to obey 
the command ! ” 

“Thou unity of Twain!” replies the 
Guardian of the Gate, “ Thou hast spoken 
well. The lesson of the Past, has not been 
lost upon thee. Stand aside for a little 
space, and wait, in Divine Patience.” 

Thus standing, the Dreamer catches the 
first glimpse of them. 

For a thousand years, these two have 
been inseparable. For so long have they 
wandered together, amidst the hills and 
dales ; the still waters and rippling brooks ; 
the foliage and flowers of Paradise. They 
met as if by accident, in a simultaneous 
entrance at the Golden Gate of Rest when 
last they came home from Earth’s bewilder- 
ing Chaos. They had taken care that this 
fortunate opportunity should not be cast 
aside. Since then, they never lost sight of 
one another. 


18 


Her Bungalow. 

Cycle after cycle of life lias been 
rounded out. These two starting out at 
the first as a dual entity, have sometimes 
met. But oftener the opaque veil assumed 
by the objective life, has masked them from 
each other. Now, with the certainty before 
them, of the ending of their years of ineff- 
able peace, there also faces them the abso- 
lute surety of an indefinite separation. 
Waiting, they discuss possibilities, in the 
language of Paradise, so musically and 
inexpressibly sweet. 

Both were old when Atlantis was young 
and the knowledge of the Gods is garnered 
within their souls. 

One is of the finest fibre, and more rest- 
less poise. The other possessed of strong, 
inner perception, is masterful and persis- 
tent. It is not difficult to foretell, to which 
sex each will gravitate, so soon as the fiat 
shall be given, “ Go thou Hence ! ” 

“ My Beloved ! ” it is the angel of the 
finer nature who speaks. The voice thrilled 
as a bird’s song, in the quiet air, not loudly 


/In /Ulanti'in IDemory. 19 

nor shrilly, but with a far-reaching, soul- 
attractiveness : “ Let us vow to one another, 
by the oath of the Ages, which cannot be 
broken, that we will seek through all the 
day of the life now coming, until we find 
that which we seek, or the life ends. Let 
LOVE’S name and power be invoked to our 
aid.” 

“Thy desire is my wish,” replied the 
masterful voice of the other. “Wherever, 
or however situated, in the near coming 
incarnation, I will always seek, and never 
cease persistent searching, until once more 
we stand face to face, or the period of that 
life be spent. Let us thus begin our 
journey.” 

The stillness of the Everlasting Life, 
abiding only in the realms of Paradise, 
records the vibration of these two attuned 
voices. Together in perfect chord, they 
mingle as do the chiming of musical bells. 
They pledge each to the other, an oath that 
no living entity may violate, but must fulfill, 
somewhere in the aeons to come. As the 


20 Her Bungalow. 

vibrations of these solemn words are 
diffused in and through the spaces of the 
Cosmos, the unbroken Silence once more 
assumes its sway. Then, to the Dreamer, 
their faces seem illumined by the ineffable 
light of the Divine Majesty, in witness of 
this, their plighted troth. The pledge thus 
exchanged is not idle breath, but a most 
potent vibration, the result of countless 
experiences and ages of acquirement, along 
the mystic life. 

The Dreamer starts, and exclaims. For 
as if in a mirror came distinctly and with 
startling perceptibility the face of one of 
this Twain. Whose face was it? Was it 
not the beau-ideal, the face hung in the 
Holy of Holies of her heart? The dim, 
shadowy vision of one who belonged to her 
and her alone, has leaped at once into real 
existence. 

Scarcely has this taken place, than the 
Dreamer hears the name of each called by 
the Keeper of the Gate. In Paradise to 
hear, is to obey. An instant more, and 


fln flllantian Hlemory. 21 

they stand in mutual interclasp of embrace, 
before the sublime functionary. In august 
tones, he gives them this parting charge: 

“ Ye are pledged each to each, as it is 
your privilege to be pledged. Ye will not 
go out together, from the Great Gate. It 
has been so spoken. All the experience 
and power that persistent search can give, 
shall be yours. Go, and forget ! ” 

As he made an end of his saying, the 
Golden Gate swung wide open. A vortex 
seized the larger and more masculine form. 
With the swiftness of an arrow shot from a 
Parthian bow, he was projected into the 
mists and darkness that hides Paradise 
from the sight of those dwelling upon 
earth. Another full moment elapses. 
Again the Gates swing to their fullest extent. 
The other soul, dainty and feminine, is 
swirled round and round obliquely, into 
space, as if she would follow and keep near 
her Beloved. 

But, alas ! The opaqueness of the gath- 
ering physical veil already hides from view 


22 


Her Bungalow. 

the companion of centuries. As the North 
Star attracts and holds the mariner’s com- 
pass, forever and forever, so do the words 
of obligation still quiver and thrill in space. 
They will so continue to attract these Souls 
of a single purpose, until accomplishment 
is finished. 

And thus, the status of both the Wait- 
ing and Wandering Soul is fixed, for a life 
to come. 


CHAPTER II. 


I N the interim of man’s life, it always 
'becomes a serious question; whether it 
be easier to search or to wait. None 
have passed through the experience of 
the law of manifestation, but understand 
what it is to forever wait, or to be forever 
searching. 

It is also a known law that manifesta- 
tion is ever clasping its bands of limitation 
tighter, forever intensifying its energy of 
repression; thereby causing a more danger- 
ous explosion of the volcano, when it has 
reached the point, where the rock-bound 
exterior can no longer hold back the boil- 
ing, surging lava of the interior. Then it 
is, that the fiery heart within, bursts forth 
in deafening potency, burying all within 
reach of its over-lying debris. 

On the other hand, it is as well known, 
that surplus energy is dissipated by the 
restlessness of search. The gradual loos- 


24 


Her Bungalow. 

in g of the bonds that bind, is harmless in 
its effect; while the sudden bursting is 
always conducive to disorder and confusion. 
It is the difference between the cyclone, and 
the idle clouds of a summer’s day. For the 
balancing of forces, the law of conservation 
should be applied to both, repression and 
diffusion. 

When too long extended, the searching 
becomes as tedious and wearisome as the 
waiting. Thus come to earth, both the 
wandering and the waiting souls. One is 
as inexorable as the other. One is always 
eagerly questioning and moving over all 
the surface of the earth. The other simply, 
stolidly affirms, moving only as the attract- 
ing force of the search demands. 

So, it was not strange, that at the first, 
a wave of discouragement swept over the 
soul of the Wanderer. All trace of the 
beloved comrade of centuries in Paradise, 
has been suddenly cut off. Her harmon- 
ious, hopeful soul would have been utterly 
cast down, had there not come freshly and 


/In fltlantian Memory. 25 

strongly into her mind, the teachings of 
one of the Great Masters, in the emerald 
fields of her late, happy home. 

His instructions had been: “ There is 
no power but Love, strong enough to hold 
through all the complex problems of earth 
life. It is Love that meets us as we cross 
the threshold of the narrow gate. It is 
Love that looks into our eyes, as we close 
them in the last earthly sleep. It is Love 
that greets us, when the Gates of Paradise 
swing inward for our reception, after our 
long or brief pilgrimage in the mortal 
realm. Love is that which abides, and is 
as eternal as God. This is the Love that 
dies not. They who love truly, can easily 
and cheerfully put aside self for the 
Beloved. Whoever returns to earth search- 
ing for whom they seek, can only find and 
rejoin them, by entering into this realm of 
Omnipotence. Love is a guide which will 
never fail you. Love will restore the loved 
ones to each other should they ever be lost.” 

When the gates had closed, behind the 


26 


Her Bungakm 

Wandering Soul, with the awesome stillness 
of loss and separation, these words of the 
Great Master appeared like flame, upon the 
photogravure of Memory, there to exist 
through Eternity. 

Like a great flood, the love and desire 
for the Waiting One, enveloped and 
absorbed the soul of the Wanderer. Con- 
sciousness of the supernal reunion became 
an abiding hope, and anchor for the bud- 
ding life work. 

But oh, the agony of waiting! Drawn 
slowly out, by the counting of seconds, 
minutes and hours ; laden with the weight 
of seeming centuries ; burdened with a full- 
ness of care and anxiety; and the uncer- 
tainty of conditions for the meeting prom- 
ised and pledged. 

How shall the Wanderer, searching and 
eagerly seeking, come face to face with the 
Waiting One, the dual Self? What veils 
of various hues and textures will fall 
between? What cords of twisted circum- 
stances and mistakes can bind and ever- 


fln /Ulantian Memory. 27 

lastingly restrain? Will they face each 
other as when separated? No, never, 
never! Both will bear the scars of battles 
fought, of defeat and of victory; both will 
have sailed the stormy seas. Sometimes, 
with sails furled and white, they will have 
tempted the rolling, tossing waves to test 
their powers of preparation and endurance. 
Again, with sails bedraggled and unfurled, 
the ship may strike a snag in the ocean of 
sub-consciousness. The in-rushing waters 
of Oblivion, will then, threaten to so over- 
balance the vital power, as to cause the 
closing of that life epoch. 

But inspired with and by the courage of 
the great Pilot, who handles the helm, they 
will sail into the same port. Perchance 
battered, torn and unrecognizably changed, 
by the law of progression, which is forever 
effacing the old and setting up new land- 
marks. Separation follows the Universal 
law of dissolution of the physical. The 
uniting, is on the line of spirit potency and 
action, for creation. The difference is that 


28 


Her Bunaaloun 

of a mountain stream, tumbling in noisy 
mirth toward the sea; and its confinement 
in a reservoir, for the concentering of 
power and its use. Progression is con- 
stantly snapping ties of attachment; but 
makes little headway in again uniting the 
broken bonds. 

Yet, even as the veil of illusion sheathes 
itself, fold upon fold, around the sentient 
souls, the assurance to the Divine Ego 
grows stronger and stronger in both, that 
after years of weary waiting, mistakes and 
cross purposes, somewhere, somehow, the 
Wandering and Waiting Souls will stand 
face to face with each other. Each will 
know its own. The duality will have 
moved toward unity. 

The souls advance; Life begins. The 
scene shifts, the Dreamer stirs. 


CHAPTER III. 


B EHOLD the Circular City ! The 
angelic Architect of which, was one 
of the Four Great Builders of Heaven 
and Earth, and all that therein is. 
Just outside its gates, a velvety sward, with 
ever-varying greens, harmoniously blended, 
stretches away into a vastness beyond the 
limit of finite vision. It is a clear cut, 
vivid setting for the unstained brilliancy of 
the White Tower; which springing into 
the bright, clear blue, beyond, is the crown- 
ing glory of the most marvellous city ever 
built. 

Atlantis the Superb! Atlantis the 
Archetype of all that has been, and all that 
shall come ! The gray sea surges in its 
ebb and flow, breaking, in long waves of 
moaning unrest on the white pebbly beach. 
The three mountain peaks, symbol of the 
untaught lessons of the Trinity of modern 
days, stands out in imminent nearness, 


30 


Her Bungalow. 

against the billowy clouds. Their fleecy 
outline softens the ruggedness, answering 
as a mantle of protection for that which lies 
beyond. 

The sun shines brilliantly, from a blue 
and cloudless sky. The meteorology and 
temperature of the atmosphere is perfected 
by the universal holding of the vibratory 
thought of “ One for all, and all for One.” 
Amidst this glittering setting of blue, green 
and purple, a woman walks, with rythmic 
step and leisurely swiftness over the matted 
turf. To the common looker-on, she is as 
one who has dreamed her life away in 
unsubstantial and unfruitful revery. But 
to those who truly and tenderly scan the 
inner and deeper life, the lurking, evanes- 
ent lines become a memento of the struggle, 
from which is born serenity of purpose, as 
well as tranquility of expression. 

With a soul, builded from its center of 
unsatisfied desires, and a heart as maleable 
as wax, in the hot tears of others, she now 
seeks rest. To her this rest consists in the 


Tin /Ulantian Iftcmory. 31 

activity of finding the Guru, who will teach 
her to sing the song of Ages, set to music, 
whose strains have inspired a long line of 
martyrs, to step bravely upon the last scene 
enacted in the drama of life. It is to the 
sound of this note, that the Angel of Death 
.shifts the scenic illusions of fading life with 
one hand, while the other lets fall the drop- 
curtain separating forever, a finished life 
from the incarnations still to come. 

Listening for this music of the far off 
spheres, behold the Wanderer lingers in 
and loiters through the Elysian Fields lead- 
ing to Arcadia. 

She is searching for the personification 
and. embodied soul of him, who stands for 
Love, Life and the All that speaks to and 
from the depths of a woman’s heart. 

Love, the Law, in its fulfilling, must 
hold for itself, both an inflowing and an 
outflowing current. The ebb and flow of 
the life blood, is symbolical of the give and 
take of love in activity. He who loves, 
lives in the highest realm of the ALL- 


32 


Her Bungalow. 

LIFE. He who loves, counts all things 
but loss, if he may but win and hold the 
true love and real affection of the one loved. 
The true lover, takes labor and toil by the 
hand, as benefactors and boon companions, 
leads them into verdant pastures giving 
fresh hope to the tired and over-taxed heart. 
Love tunes the Harp of Life to the perfect 
vibration of the At-One-ment. When 
played upon by the hands of Fate and Des- 
tiny, any discord made thereby, may be har- 
monized by the soft, lingering touch of 
Love, the Divine, the Perfect Harper! 

Her light step becomes more elastic and 
bouyant. It can only be compared in stateli- 
ness and rythmic action, to the movement 
of the old time minuet. As she moves for- 
ward, her white and gold-colored draperies 
are swayed by the gentle wafting of the sea- 
breeze. They undulate about her lithe 
form, betraying the symmetry of the fair 
molding beneath. 

At her feet lay the broad valley, sugges- 
tive of tranquil repose. As she advances, 


fln JUIantian IDemcry. 33 

her feet sink into the long, soft grass. 
Her whole being partakes of its green rest- 
fulness, stirring into activity the subtle 
linking of the Seen and the Unseen, the 
Past and the Present. When lo ! As if 
thrown upon a sensitive plate, framed by 
the memory of the vow voiced at the Great 
Gates of Paradise ; the velvety green serv- 
ing as a back ground; behold! Hope, 
man’s ever guiding, never failing Angel in 
the hour of despair, developes therefrom a 
finished picture. The soft, azure robes of 
the vision-angelic, graciously waft their viv- 
ifying aroma through the picturesque land- 
scape. The fresh beauty of the heavenly 
Presence tempers the mid-day air. A halo 
of soft, brilliant light encircles a head, per- 
fect in form, a face oval in contour. The 
eyes uplifted, are indescribably inspiring. 
Their light falls upon the Wanderer and 
from out the Silence, the Angel voice 
speaks : 

“Oh, Child of Fire! Whither goest, 
and what seekest thou?” 


34 Her Bungalow. 

Hearing the voice, she turns her queenly 
head and lifting her dark eyes, beholds a 
form strong and vigorous, yet feminine in 
expression. In words melodious with the 
fullness of unshed tears, with keen intensity 
of desire she responds : 

“Oh, Thou, Star-eyed One! Whose 
radiance is transcendent, point thou out to 
me, the viewless path leading to my love ; 
to me, a Wanderer, wandering over the 
broad plains of Earth. How can the abode 
of Peace be found by the soul, searching 
continuously through life, and is now weary 
and fain would reach the goal of its desire.” 

Thus answered the Mighty Angel : 

“Oh, thou Wandering Soul! Look for 
thyself, beyond all bounds of limitations, 
and receive what thou there seest, into thy 
innermost Self! ” 

After this manner, the Beautiful Glory 
made reply, placing, at the same moment, a 
hand upon the eyes of the Wanderer. 
Instead of its becoming a veil, the Wanderer 
sees : 


An Atlantian Memory. 35 

Oh, Gladness of Sight! Oh, Splendor 
of Love ! Oh, Crown of Life ! A light that 
bursts in Divine effulgence from the six 
pointed star, becomes the central point of the 
crowning vision of all lives. The light 
clears and illumines, but neither dazzles or 
irritates. 

To the Wanderer, the uplifting is as if 
the ropes of the balloon-like sense-con- 
sciousness had been cut, leaving the soul 
afloat in a boundless ocean of ether. Again, 
the voice of the Blessed Angel resounds 
through the etheric-charged air: 

“ Keep thine eyes fixed forever on the 
Star which hangs motionless over the Gate 
leading into Paradise. So did the Star of 
the Magians poise itself, over the manger 
cradle of the Perfect Man. Hold thy heart 
forever turned from the laughing and gar- 
ish world. Let thy life become one of crea- 
tive good, for the sorrows of those who 
must travel the same road as thyself. Let 
it also be as life-giving as the rays of the 
the sun. Remember oh, faltering soul! 
Weary as thou art of uncertainty, thou 


36 


Her Bungalow. 

canst not cease to walk unhesitatingly. Be 
not dismayed that the way is a viewless 
one. Certain results with unerring finger 
guide thee on a path, which though wind- 
ing, leads to arms awaiting thee at the end 
of thy quest. Here I must leave thee, fare- 
well ! It is my privilege only, to point thee 
to the guiding Star. Thou must walk the 
path alone, yet not alone. All thou needest 
will be given unto thee. As thy percep- 
tion is awakened and thy demands quiver 
and thrill with potent force, so will they be 
put forth in the lower currents of the Uni- 
verse. Go Hence ! When the fierce waves 
of the river, thou must surely cross, face 
thee in sullen obstruction, call. Then shalt 
thou be guided, even as I have guided thee. 
Farewell ! Fear not ! When thou art in 
need, call. Farewell!” 

The great sun-girt, azure robed Angel 
gliding backward, fades gradually from the 
range of finite vision. But in the vanish- 
ing, the out-stretched arms with beckoning 
motion and sweeping curves of beauty, 
plainly say: “Follow thou me.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


T HUS, Oil the outskirts of the adored 
Atlantis, this pilgrim soul started 
on her journey, toward the fulfill- 
ing of the never-to-be-forgotten vow 
made at the Gates of Paradise. She moves 
forward in the direction of the abode in 
which abides Love, Peace and Plenty. The 
home of the stranger, the Bungalow of 
Existence ! 

The words of the purple-crowned God- 
dess have left their impress upon the soul 
of the Wanderer. They refresh the thirsty 
soul, as the primeval night-dews refresh 
the parched desert. While the fragrance of 
violets still loiter in the atmosphere ; as the 
sun lingers upon the subtle beauty of the 
roses and flowers, she raises her dazed sight 
upward. Her eyes glint with the lumin- 
ousness of the vision, whose radiance trails 
after it, as does the effulgence from a 
mighty comet. 


38 


Her Bumjaloia. 

Behold ! On beyond, away beyond, top- 
ping the crest of a broad, thatched-roofed 
Bungalow, such as is seen on the mountain 
side of the Himalayas, shone the Star. It 
scintillated in the sunlight, with all the 
rays of the solar spectrum, melting yet 
again and again into the soft glory of the 
white light, typical of the Infinite. 

The world seems sweeter and more 
gentle, from the silent invitation of the 
heavenly messenger, whose beneficence 
encompasses the Universe, as a cloud of 
glory. Hope, the builder of fortunes — the 
architect of palaces, the walls of which are 
chiseled of ideal stuff — the substance from 
which worlds are made, allures her children 
on to the home of the ignis fatus . Some of 
the illusions prove only short-lived, while 
others live on and on, to become as aged as 
the Goddess who enticed them thither. 

To her who seeks, the experience has 
been a setting to harmony of coming 
success; a fulfillment of a haunting desire, 
which ever and anon filled her soul with 
entrancing ecstacy. 


/In /Ulantian Memory. 39 

Gathering her scattered consciousness, 
with breathless eagerness, she hastened for- 
ward through the flowery dale, with 
renewed courage and a centralized power 
she had never before known. She is no 
longer chasing phantasies ; she is now 
reaching out, for something more tangible. 
With the starry abode in sight, the dark- 
ness of life’s disappointments vanish. 

Serenely meditating, for a moment she 
loses herself in the flowery spell of color 
and fragrance essential, that occasionally 
permeates the reverential and expanding 
soul. She stoops to pluck one of the 
golden-eyed blossoms, growing knee-deep 
all about her. As she lifts her supple 
figure from the stooping posture, lo — she 
discovers she has moved forward with light- 
ning-light rapidity. Or has she been sud- 
denly transported to an unthought of realm 
grayness ? The vibrating symphony is not 
the same; the symphony of sound has 
changed ; from the silent chimes of the vio- 
let and the sleepy lullabies of the poppy, to 


40 


Her Bungalow. 

the dull roar of many waters. The heavy 
fall and swash of sea waves, alternate with 
the cool, delicious aud laughing tones of a 
pebbly-bottomed brooklet. The brilliant- 
hued coloring, its luminous harmony, the 
infinite gradations of blue in the sky, has 
been suddenly veiled by a gray, transpar- 
ent mist, which rising hides from view the 
Star-capped Bungalow. But a moment ago, 
it seemed so near and its walls, like those 
chiseled by the hand of Hope, had promised 
so much toward a well-earned rest. The 
strange awesomeness of the change chilled 
her heart. But with swift decision she 
moves forward, as through the dimly 
shaded light of Immortal Faith, when lo, 
she sees, coursing swiftly on before her, a 
stream of water, seemingly as boundless 
and shoreless as the river of life. 

One step forward, the water dashes 
against her feet, the spray dampens the 
blue under tunic of the white and gold 
robe, in which she is garmented. 

Lost to every other thought, but the 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 41 

one of how the waters shall be crossed; 
nothing in sight but the fast flowing river, 
and the far-off mountain which she longs 
to reach ; is it a wonder that she questions 
for the moment, the possibility of turning 
and wending her way back over the road 
she has j ust traversed ? As a wall of density, 
the black waters roll up higher and 
higher, seeming to separate her forever 
from the Star-crowned home of Love and 
Hope. 

Who has not experienced the same 
lesson ? Who has not stood as she stands, 
face to face with a river too deep for mortal 
mau to ford? Who has not been pinioned 
between the walls of a Fate that forces one 
on, irrevocably on, to Destiny? Despair 
not thou, who art now between the walls! 
The yearning of thy human heart for some- 
thing higher; the cry for the awakening 
out of its sleeping condition of all humanity 
in whose great army you are enlisted ; from 
whose battles there is no retreat, are all 
focused in the one command: “Forward, 


42 Her Bungalow. 

march !” Those who will not go forward, 
cannot go back ; but slide out between the 
dark passages. They are lost to all recom- 
pense for the Past ; all accomplishment of 
the Present ; all recognition of the Beyond. 

This Wanderer is not made of the stuff, 
of which cowards are fashioned. She but 
needs the light of dawning consciousness, 
to arouse the memory of the charge given 
her by her recent guide : “ Ask for guid- 

ance and it shall be given thee.” The 
prompt recognition of this memory, and 
her silent earnest attitude, put forth in a 
land so pregnant with sensitive vibrations, 
is sufficient to draw aside the nebulous cur- 
tain of invisibility, Lo ! Midway over the 
shadowy deep, a figure, glorified as the 
Archangel Gabriel, poised itself, with out- 
spread wings. Eagerly waiting to infold 
upon its enduring breast, the lingering 
Wanderer now hesitating on the brink of 
the depthless waters. In a voice as if 
trumpeted by the tumbling waves, the 
Supreme Angel of the Eternities, speaks : 


J\n /Hlantian Ittcmory. 43 

“ Oh, thou Pilgrim Soul ! Why delay- 
est thou thy journey? Knowest thou not 
the danger of hesitation, or of looking back 
upon that which thou hast left behind? 
What wouldst thou have, whither goest?” 

Shaken with the intensity of suppressed 
desire, in tremulous accents the sweet tones 
of the Wanderer make answer: 

“Oh, thou messenger from the Gods, 
watching eternally over our destiny! The 
guardian of the Gates of Wisdom ! I 
beseech thee unchain for my soul, the 
entrance of that which I seek — the land of 
Freedom and of Love. Oh, thou Spirit of 
Light and Wisdom ! Lift me into full per- 
ception, that I may fulfill the obligation 
vowed at the Gates of Paradise.” 

Again, the sonorous voice of the Lord 
of the Thrice-Born resounds in splendor 
and truth between the boundless space of 
heaven and earth : 

“Daughter of the Great Temple! Look 
up!” 

Still holding in her mind the one 


44 


Her Bungalow. 

thought, how to cross the unspanned cur- 
rent; the Wanderer lifts her misty eyes. 
Behold again ! Beneath the outstretched 
wings of the hovering Spirit, the fingers of 
the magic-scene shifters, have for a space 
rolled away the curtain of the Unknown. 
Suspended over the swirling mass, she 
beholds the central span of a bridge, feath- 
ery and phantom-like. It is at once as 
fragile and gigantic as the bridge of Life. 
Woven of golden threads and so light in 
workmanship, it wears the look of a web of 
lace hanging from the Celestial Dome. 
Infinitesimally small, yet innately strong; 
so intricately interlaced were the slender 
filaments, that only a breath from the Infi- 
nite can snap them asunder. Like Atlas of 
old, it upholds the earth. A little shud- 
dering thrill of awe, swept the pulses of the 
lone gazer. What is this she sees? Has 
this structure been thrown out by invisible 
hands while she waited? Questioningly, 
she rests in the Silence; anxiously, listens 
for the sound of the summoning voice 
of the potent messenger. 


/In Jlilantian Ittemory. 45 

The Infinite Spirit, catching the tin- 
voiced thought and question, from afar off, 
makes answer: 

“ Oh, thou Vestal, over all other Vestals ! 
Oh, thou trusted one of the Mighty Three! 
Knowest thou not, that according to thy 
perception, shalt thou see the bridge which 
shall carry thee over to the Land of Free- 
dom and Love ? In proportion to thy faith 
and obedience shall the bridge be builded 
from the lower world to this center. Lift 
but thine eyes to the far off Star, come 
under the sheltering shadow of my wings. 
Step but one step forward and prove for thy- 
self the truth of Wisdom’s words. Faith 
will build the bride under thy feet and 
guide thee across the troublous waters. 

“ Listen not, to the craven voices of 
those who would tempt thee. Tarry not, 
but hasten ere the waters close over the 
bridge that awaits thy first touch, to make 
it securely thine forever. Remember, “V/ 
is the ground that we do not tread upon 
which supports us ! ” ’ 


CHAPTER V. 


S HE gathered her draperies in her 
shapely hands, as if fearful of further 
contact with the watery deep. Look- 
ing to the mountain top, she sees the 
great star shining brightly. Its central fire 
radiates to the circumference and there 
touches the periphery of all its existence. 
Again returning to the center, it holds 
ensouled within its vibrations, other souls 
to be illuminated and become self-radiating 
from the same great Fire. The fire of all the 
Gods is kindled from and concentrated in 
one Great God! The flame from which all 
fires are lighted, touches her face caress- 
ingly and reaches the deeps of her inner 
self. It gives alertness to her step and 
kindles a new-born graciousness in her 
heart. With the lightness of a bird; the 
swiftness of an antelope; and the grace of a 
swan, her lifted garments still gathered 
about her, she steps forward upon the 


fin fltlnntian IDemory. 47 

now firmly built hither end of the bridge. 
For a single fraction of a second, she 
trembles with fear and astonishment. Only 
a moment ago, she saw but the center of the 
“Golden Bridge” as a fine network of 
golden threads. Now, she has taken but 
one step forward and her feet rest upon 
solid masonery, builded not by hands, but 
by obedience to the command “ Go forward.” 
It is given to the Lord of the Self by the 
Spirit of Wisdom, who when called, cometh 
shod with the wings of fire. 

The slight form sways, when for an 
atom of time hesitation betrays potency; 

. and she had almost lost herself from out the 
Self. For a moment only, she stops to 
gaze below into the ofttime bellowing depths 
of the chasm, whose black waters roll on 
and on, forever. Souls more brave than 
hers, have fallen headlong into the eddying 
currents and been lost in the whirlpool, 
rather than rally their courage and faith, to 
take the necessary step forward. 

The Higher Self listens eagerly to the 


48 


Her Bungalow. 

voice of the Spirit whispering to her of 
things to come. When taking step after 
step, she finds she has truly builded her 
own bridge. Although each step has been 
taken in darkness and into the chaos of 
nothingness, yet now, at last, she stands 
under the seraphic overshadowing of the 
wings of the Great Vision. 

The glory of the great light, the bewild- 
ering brightness of St. John’s sight poured 
down upon her. It held in complete solu- 
tion every atom of her material being. Her 
whole body becomes transmuted and trans- 
figured, under the vigor of the immortal 
fire. Her raiment reflects the never-dying 
light, whiter than any Fuller can make it. 
The external change is attended by no less 
wondrous transition of the inner. The ego 
rising beyond all limitations, in the twink- 
ling of an eye, becomes the at-one-ment of 
the individual I AM with the Universal I 
AM. She walks on thrones. For all time 
to come the power of unlimited accomplish- 
ment is hers. Whatever she may desire, 


fln /lllantian Ittemory. 49 

lays before ber as a possibility. Omnipo- 
tence crowns perfect ideality. The goal of 
perfect transmutation is hers. 

Slowly, yet more slowly, the hovering 
wings weighted with the wisdom of the 
eternities, withdraw gradually from her 
sight. Finally, when afar off, they poise 
again in the distant ether. Echoed words 
as if from Celestial heights sink to the 
center of the transfigured soul: 

“Oh, Child of the sacred Fire! You 
decided well when you chose the six pointed 
star for your guiding symbol. Within it, 
you find the “Logos” which is the crea- 
tive principle, containing all that is or ever 
will be. It is Life and Death! It is the 
Bride and Bridegroom ! The physical and 
spiritual essence! The perfect marriage! 
The marriage whose nuptials are celebrat- 
ing continually in the natural world, with 
Nature’s law acting as ceremonial Priest! 
Within yon star, ebbs and flows all life of 
the Universe! From the center, the dual 
soul was projected into space; divided, each 


50 


Her Bungalow. 

to grow and develop until thou shalt 
become one again.” 

Thus speaking, floating in a wave-like 
vibration, more rapidly than before, the 
Great God sends a sigh-thrilled adieu to 
the now uplifted soul of the Wanderer. 
She can not part thus readily from a mes- 
senger so helpful. Forgetting for the 
instant, that on the great sea of life separ- 
ation is impossible; that the perils of part- 
ing are human; the snapping of ties the 
result of mortal limitations, a wave of agony 
rolled over her. Lifting the clear treble 
note of her voice, it rang out across the 
limitless space: 

“Oh, leave me not, thou Immortal God! 
Take, absorb me in the glory of thy undy- 
ing attributes!” 

For a brief time she also forgot her 
quest for Freedom and her vow to the Wait- 
ing one. From afar off Land, came wafting 
back a whispering voice : 

“Thou wilt no longer need me as an 
incentive to go forward. Thine own desire 


/In fltlanlian Iflemory. 51 

will bear thee on to the other side of the 
waters. Thou needs t have no fear.” 

The Angel is shut from view, by the 
effulgent light that burst from the soul of 
the star. Buoyed by the divinity of her 
experience; blind to the rush of the dark 
waters beneath, she is on the boundary of 
two worlds. Both hers, both necessary to 
be entered into for experience and the 
intense longing of the human heart to 
know. The World of Freedom which she 
seeks ; the World of Nature with its chrysalis 
limitations! From this apex, she can see 
beyond the range of sight ; can hear beyond 
the range of sound, into the humanness of 
the Divine. To be truly human, one must 
have touched Divinity. To be Divine, one 
must know all possible human weakness. 

Thus, the varied pictures which she her- 
self has drawn upon the walls of space, 
startle her as she gazes upon the kaleides- 
copic views hanging thereon. Then, glanc- 
ing at the beauty of coloring, the perfect 
drawing of the ideal world, without hesita- 


52 


Her Bungalow. 

tion she flings herself forward, into what 
seemed a limitless beyond, to find once 
more a solid resting place for her slender 
foot. Reassured, the will of her own desire 
carries her on and on, building and yet 
building a foundation more solid than brick 
or mortar can fashion. Her thoughts each 
moment, beget new material for the finish- 
ing of the Master Work; the completion of 
the Bridge that carries from the Lower to 
the Higher consciousness. It is the build- 
ing of the Bridge, called by the ancients, 
Antaskarana. To this work the High- 
priest of all religions is dedicated, and holds 
the office of Pontifex Maximus , or chief 
bridge-builder. 

As a cloud envelopes the mountain top, 
so did recurring memory baptize the Wand- 
erer with the recollection, that from the 
Ages of the Past, she has been her own 
High-priest and Pontifex ! 


CHAPTER VI. 


T HE Wanderer steps from the bridge. 
Looking backward, she sees only a 
shoreless sea; forever in ceaseless 
unrest; forever freighted with the 
debris of wasted energy, bearing on its tide 
atoms too weighty for the airy-like structure 
to hold. The golden wired bridge is no 
longer in view. It has vanished as com- 
pletely and suddenly, as if swept away by a 
whirlpool of contending forces. It has dis- 
appeared as quickly as its need had made it 
apparent. 

Once safe across the chasm, its darken- 
ing depths no longer have power to appall 
her. Now that the danger is past, she 
wonders there should have been a shudder- 
ing hesitation, when looking upon its 
bridgeless dimensions. The gloom of the 
waters is no longer lighted by the glint of 
the golden wires. 

The sunshine throws its long yellow 


54 Her Bungalow. 

rifts across her pathway. Before her, 
looms the mountains, topped by rose and 
lilac clouds; the verdure of its plateau, 
makes an emerald setting for the greyish- 
brown nest that bears the Star for its crown 
of glory. The Star with its undeviating 
lines; its undying life essence; its central 
pofnt as forceful as is the steady flame in 
its consumation; the mountain height, all, 
all tempt her onward toward her heaven- 
ward journey. 

After leaving ripe and flowery fields, 
having crossed roaring waters; when at 
last we find ourselves, at the foot of a moun- 
tain, musing in solemn ecstacy of accomp- 
lishment, it is then, we are in the right 
environment to send up heart-beatings and 
compassionate entreaties to the altar of 
Humanity, which rests on the Mountain of 
Desire. There, at the foot of the mountain, 
the longing cry to find the Self, echoes back 
from its rugged sides. There, standing 
face to face with the Self for the moment, 
we have sounded the depths of the human 


fin fltlantian Memory. 55 

heart and found the opening of the road 
leading to the Land of Freedom. 

The narrow trail, the round boulders so 
slippery in their roundness; pointed crags 
and all the dangers of mountain climbing 
are enshrouded in the stupendous grandeur 
of its own silent solitude. The crevices are 
filled with the tremulous, echoing wail of 
souls that have passed up the mountain in 
search of the Self, only to fall back palsied, 
when the latch of the Golden Gate is just 
within reach. This most marvellous Gate 
when opened, discloses the fullness of the 
Arcane, both of human and Immortal life. 
Thus is added another item, to the long 
and ever increasing list of “ missed oppor- 
tunities.” 

The Grottoes echo harmonious sounds 
of joy and the unloosed suppression of self- 
holding, of those who have journeyed before. 
The mountain nymphs dance the sacred 
dance and shout the glad hosannas: “He 
is not dead! He is arisen” when at last 
two souls meet, each recognizing the other. 


56 


Her Bungalow. 

There, kneeling as one, they face the throne 
of God, which in this moment of heart- 
bounding ecstacy seem so nearly in their 
possession. 

To the Wanderer, looking up from the 
foot of the mountain, the climbing seems 
inspiring; the ascending, fascinating. As- 
piring to reach the great plateau and the 
Bungalow resting thereon, the wings of 
Inspiration overshadow her with their mani- 
fold enticements. So enfolded, it is easy 
mounting the first winding steps, leading 
the soul to its royalty and to its God. The 
Wanderer has learned by former lessons, 
that the journey must be made by the self, 
for the self. She has blazed her own path 
through the wilderness. The way has been 
made with fewer wounds by following the 
finger of Hope, pointing to the fiery star. 
By listening to the voice of the wise 
Hermes, she has builded as no mortal hand 
can build. 

As reward of obedience, she is able to 
commune with the Angels, and can hear 


/In /lilantian Memory. 57 

lier heart’s desire calling, calling, calling 
from the mountain-top. She goes climbing 
on and on, chanting silently the unpro- 
nouncible ode that makes music for the 
singing of many others. Love sings it as 
the soul mounts higher and higher, into 
the knowledge of what true Love is, in all 
its bearings toward the three planes of life. 
The humaii* love exists to trine the spirit- 
ual and soul Love. Her chant is not the 
vibration of a single phase of existence; a 
treble note to be drowned by the deeper 
wave of the bass. It is the chant of the 
Three-fold God, as old as the Ages and as 
pure as the awakening of a new-born soul. 
It is the Love that has purity for its 
essence. The essence of purity is an 
unmixed quality, scintillating from the 
gem after the cutting, grinding and polish- 
ing has taken off all the roughnesses 
gathered into its vortex by involvment and 
evolvment. 

Like the tender wail of a minor chord, 
piercing and far-reaching, through all, 


58 Her Bungalow. 

there comes down from the mountain 
height, that call, the echo from Paradise, 
which speaking to her alone, no other can 
hear. Should it be heard, no other soul 
could understand. The refrain of this mes- 
sage ringing down from the mountain side, 
is the music, that through all the life, has 
been her aspiration, her inspiration. Again 
and again her whole being thrills to the words: 

“ Come up Higher ! Come up Higher ! ” 

Transcendently, irresistably drawn ! 
She continues her ascent. The way grows 
more precipitous, the rocks rougher, the 
steps from steep to steep become higher 
and more difficult to take. But to the 
wonderfully upborne ego, there is nothing 
that can bring any sensation of holding 
back, or retardment. The call of the Ages, 
heard after this manner, gives wings to 
both heart and feet. The story of the 
Ancient Hermes, is once more expressed; 
spirit desire is intensified by the vital fire 
of the physical force. The crucible is in the 
furnace. The process of transmutation of 


f \ n /Hlantian Memory, 59 

all else, into fine gold is in operation. 
What shall the accomplishment be? 

The overwhelming assurance of achiev- 
ment draws ever nearer and nearer. Occa- 
sionally, she stops to breathe. Looking 
ever forward and never backward, her eye 
can see but the Star which over-hangs the 
low-browed building. The Past of her 
journey, the already completed, is left to 
care for itself, the dead Past must bury its 
own dead. To her, journeying mountain- 
ward, nothing is left behind, save Time and 
Nature. Her gaze is ever fixed on that 
wdiich is before. Her brilliant eyes, shin- 
ing like stars in their clear light, ever and 
anon pierce the rifts in the great clouds. 
There, her quickened sight beholds a dim out- 
line — a vision of the goal toward which she 
moves, the attracting magnet of present effort. 

At last, as this scene of glory breaks 
upon her enraptured vision, she seats her- 
self on a rocky promontory and pantingly, 
draws a long sigh of restfulness. The sun- 
light breaks fully through the mountain 


60 


Her Bungalow. 

mists; the broad vista of the plateau; the 
envelope of pinkish clouds at this moment, 
hide the darkness of the valley below. In 
the upper sunlight, above the influence of 
the lower grossness, where the light of the 
Eternal Existence ever bathes it, nestles 
this home of the Wandering Soul, the Bun- 
galow of Plenty ; of Rest; of Love. In the 
midst of a heaven clearly visible to intro- 
spective sense, the realized hope of lives, 
the Word of the Ages, the Harmony of 
Existence is plainly before her. Complete- 
ness of attainment is close at hand. The 
unjoined thread of the Past sways and 
bends from the attracting force of future 
proximity. 

The Royal Ego, poising on the verge of 
its mundane possessions, for the nonce, 
would spread its wings for an unending 
flight. But remembering its mission of 
attendance upon its Comrade — the Lower 
Self — to the audience chamber of the King, 
it resumes its attitude as Warder, and 
waits a little space. 


CHAPTER VII. 


D ARKNESS and chaos below. The 
light of the everlasting above. It 
is a brave, intrepid soul that has 
the courage to keep the eye fixed on 
the glitter of the Eternal Star, for it is oft- 
times blinding. 

At this altitude only quick and rapid 
breathing is sensed, by the Wanderer. She 
rests her head upon her hand, the other 
presses against her heart as if to hold and 
keep it from bursting, with its own great 
joy. She is filled with gratitude to the 
powers, for having lifted her to a point 
where can be seen the outflashings of the 
bright Beyond, without becoming sightless, 
or the light fading. 

Her breathing gradually becomes more 
rythmic and less intense. Again, through 
the radiant ether sounds the voice, as sweet 
and soft, as though vibrating through the 
strings of an ^Eolian Harp. 


62 Her Bungalow. 

The Waiting Soul, endowed with the 
patience of long deferment, calling with 
liquid cadence, has at last, touched and 
stirred, the memory of Paradise. Recur- 
ring memory becomes an actuality. Under 
its impulse, the Wanderer rises, in an atti- 
tude of earnest attention and faces the Bun- 
galow. Oh, joy close upon her! One 
hand shades her eyes from the light, that 
grows ever brighter and clearer in its rosi- 
ness. The other is still pressed to her 
throbbing heart, that she may compel its 
silence, while listening to the chanting 
words of the refrain : 

u Come higher thou Pilgrim ! Come 
hither, that thou mayest see the inner wis- 
dom of thine own heart. I have waited 
long for thee, for thee! ” 

The transcendent symphony dies away, 
as sweetly as does the cadent wail of one 
soul sinking into the depths of its other 
self. Again and again, it rises on the 
minor chords of entreaty, sent forth over 
the silver thread of the Existent. The 


Jin fltlantian Memory. 63 

thread that holds forever; constantly 
attracting the Wanderer to its Waiting mate. 

A few more steps in hurried movement 
forward! At last! She stands before the 
entrance of the Bungalow. Its low roof, 
slanting toward her; its suggestive large- 
ness, home-like and restful, tempt her to 
further investigation. The walls, weather- 
beaten by the storms of the Ages, have no 
window. It is not lighted from without, 
but from within. A broad, low portico 
stretches across the whole front ; hinting at 
welcome and rest, to all w r ayfarers who may 
pass that way. It also presents a silent, 
hidden barrier to those bringing no answer- 
ing message for the challenge : 

“What of the Day?” Formulated 
always, by the impassable and invisible 
sentinel. 

Whoever has, tells. Who has not, 
passes on. 

All this surges into her inner-know- 
ledge, as her eye falls for the first time 
upon the doorway and its cloture. 


64 


Her Bungalow. 

A curtain hangs there in heavy folds, 
hiding the mystery of the Sphinx. The 
Wanderer steps upon the porch, separating 
her from the barred doorway. She essays 
ruthlessly, to enter the secret place of the 
Most High, but a restraining hand rests 
upon her shoulder. A voice she dares not 
refuse to obey bids her pause, look and 
learn. 

The fabric of the veil wavers and 
trembles, as if disturbed by the inflowing 
and outflowing of the Waters of Life. The 
hues gathered from many setting suns, the 
blue, the purple, the crimson and the white- 
ness of fine linen , shimmer and flash out in 
all the brilliancy of coloring with which the 
Ancient Wisdom defied the ravages of 
Time. Vividly flitting about and in the 
midst of these heavenly colors, the Wand- 
erer perceives the Winged Globe of the 
Egyptian, the Cherubim of the Hebrew; 
the angelic guardians of the inner sanct- 
uary of all ages, and all religions. She 
knows, as all intiates know, that she stands 


fln flllantian Memory. 65 

before the Veil of Isis. From Her inner 
sense is also cognized, as if written in letters 
of fire: 

“ Thou art now bidden and must make 
the supreme effort of tby many lives. 
Exert all tby power, trust tbyself to tbe 
benignant forces that are tby friends.” 

Sbe stops, balf startled at the immens- 
ity thus presented to her view. Out of tbe 
Silence an inverted picturing recalls a time 
when sbe in tbe ages, of tbe now forgotten 
in earth, stood before this barrier at tbe 
completion of her journey, from tbe East to 
tbe West; and again from tbe West to tbe 
East. Each time there bad been revealed 
to her knowledge— wonderful unfolding. 
Now, what? Would her courage, her wis- 
dom, her renewed physical life be sufficient 
to carry her through? In answer came tbe 
whispered accents of tbe Higher Self, 
clearly and distinctly uttered : 

“I know in whom I have trusted. I 
know that I shall pass tbe ordeal victori- 
ously.” 


66 


Her Bungalow. 

She knew also, that no human being 
could lift for another the heavy, trembling 
Veil which hangs like a dark mantle of 
Death before the soul that is ignorant of 
the hour of its lifting. No matter how far 
along the road we may have traveled, with 
those whom we love and who love us, the 
hypostatic union may prevail until the 
Veil is reached, then always interposes the 
dread decree: “Thus far, and no farther! ” 
Here polarization ceases. Here they sep- 
arate, each entering alone into the Holy 
Place. It at once becomes a center of activ- 
ities, from which flow diverging lines out, 
toward the boundless circumference of 
necessity. 

When once the Veil is lifted, the victor 
becomes one with the Beloved, also one of 
the Select, who passing on into the com- 
pleteness of attainment, can also declare the 
sacred Mysteries. The Golden Gate of the 
Hathor leading into the Kingdom of 
Heaven swings behind him. 


/In fltlantian Memory. 67 

The minor notes of the chant, with its 
weird vibration, now dies hushedly away. 
The hand lifts from her shoulder. The 
Wanderer waits before the veil, disrobed of 
all save the human heart, and its experience. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


T HUS she stands waiting, longingly. 
It is not a long tarrying, until 
through the thickly hung door- 
way, a gravely intoned discourse 
impresses itself upon her mentality. This 
was the fashion of it : 

“It is only by garnered wisdom and per- 
ception, from the point of accumulation and 
waiting, that the soul, inspired by the 
Divine energy of action, knows when the 
moment has come, in which the Veil of 
Isis can be triumphantly lifted. 

“No two souls lift its mighty folds in a 
similar manner. Each must stretch forth 
its own hand, made strong and able by its 
own purified endeavor, washed clean in the 
blood of their own experience. For final 
accomplishment it must be seized hold of at 
a moment when all the atoms pulsate in 
unison, vibrating in at-one-ment with the 
heart of Humanity. 


/In fltlantian Memory. 69 

“Not until the soul has awakened to 
the full extent of its possibilities ; not until 
it is able to master the lesson when squarely 
facing it, has the time come when the Veil, 
made heavy by its own gorgeousness of 
gold and silver embroideries, can be lifted. 
Then, while the wings of the dolphins whir 
in their silent activity, Woman waiting 
before the door of her own soul, may lift the 
beautiful curtain ushering her into Life. 
This will unfold to her the mysteries of the 
human heart — the mysteries of the per- 
fected union of positive and negative forces. 
Undismayed, guarding the Temple of God, 
the mantle of Oblivion shall fall from her, 
and Woman will stand revealed as the 
crowning glory of Creation and Mankind.” 

The inborne voice dies away; but the 
uplifting thought rests upon the Beautiful 
One. 

Again statue-like, with down-cast eyes 
and hands hanging listlessly before her, 
she stands self-indrawn, a Wanderer no 
longer! The white and blue draperies of 


70 


Her Bungalow. 

her robe, blend her, almost as one with the 
misty throng of angels, gathering around 
the Bungalow; now poising in mid air, 
above the mystic Star; now hovering nearer 
and nearer to her who at this moment rep- 
resents Obedience. She is enveloped in a 
light of such dazzling transparency, that 
even the angels only, commune afar off. 

To the inner self of the Wanderer comes 
once again the voice of her Mentor; low, 
magical and penetrating. A moment’s 
pause; at the sound of the etherial and 
mysterious signal, she raises her head and 
listens as the voice continues : 

“ It is by obedience only that the human 
heart manifests itself to the messengers of 
God. Even the angels of the spheres are 
unable to touch the hem of the garment, of 
her who has walked through the fiery path 
— fire before and a canopy of burning pines 
overhead. Is it not declared, that “joy 
shall be in heaven, over one sinner that 
repen teth, more than over many who need 
no repentance.” The angels can only help 


fin /Ulantian Memory. 71 

us paint tlie canvas of our imagination with 
the coloring of our own thoughts. 

The Voice ceased. The veil swayed 
and swept in waves, as if the invincible 
Spirit of the Air stirred it from top to 
bottom. A mighty murmur, the united 
utterance of an infinite multitude, hidden 
by the Great Veil, speaks: 

“Be faithful and courageous, the time 
has come.” 

As if touched by the fire of her own 
soul ; as suddenly as a flame leaps from a 
lighted torch, her fingers grasp the shining 
fabric. With one strong effort, the Veil is 
rent in twain. 

When lo! The mountain trembled; 
the wind swept in cyclonic eddies at her 
feet, swishing her diaphanous robes about 
her. The rolling rush of the river, filled 
with the debris of wasted energy dashes its 
white-lipped waves tumultuously against 
the rocky base of the mountain, making 
the air vibrant with its uproarious utter- 
ances. The Bungalow shook, as if under 


72 


Her Bungalow. 

the hand of an awful Divinity. From the 
white light of the Star rainbow tints, scint- 
illate with yet more brilliant fierceness. 
The angels fold their wings, the angelic 
choir bursts forth in loud acclaim. The 
seven Great Aniens echo from plateau to 
plateau, as the triumphant Hosanna of the 
victorious soul melts into the Voice of the 
heavenly host, that crowd the gates and 
walls of Paradise. As each note is hosannaed 
out over the mountain, the colors radiating 
from the Star change, in spontaneous uni- 
son with each musical vibration. The 
duskiness which is the forerunner of the 
brooding of the Holy Spirit, shadows the 
whole. The Tabernacle of the Most High 
is in the Darkness of the Silence. 

Amidst this symphony of sound, color 
and motion, the Wanderer waits still and 
motionless. Her trained soul, accustomed 
to the ebulitions of the material, asks her- 
self the question : 

“Has the moment of revelation come?” 

With raised eyes and clear vision, 
through the parted Veil, as though a sud- 


An /Ulantian Memory. 73 

den revelation, she beholds in the interior 
of the Bungalow, a form as if her mirrored 
self. Before an altar of Alabaster, awaits a 
soul, robed in the festival garments of a 
High Priest. Surmounting the Altar rests 
the Lotus Blossom, wherein flashes and 
flames the never-dying fire; now leaping 
heavenward, now sinking into incandes- 
ence, as it is touched by the fitful thought 
of the over-anxious world. In the right 
hand of the priest is held a reed, symbol of 
Omnipotence ; in his left, he bears aloft the 
bowl of burning incense, symbol of Love, 
devotion and unity. The one Creative, the 
other Redemptive. From this Golden 
Bowl, the rising fragrance must be inhaled 
by both, the Wandering and the Waiting 
ones, ere for them, the cycles of separation 
end. 

A single second ! The soul of the Inte- 
rior reaches out to the Wanderer. The 
silent holiness; the cathedral air; the low 
hum of the sweet chant enfolds her in their 
mystic Aura. She looks more piercingly 


74 


her Bungalow. 

into the darkened room, with its shining 
center — focus of mellow light emanating 
from the Holy of Holies. The low, soul- 
stirring music of the chant formulates the 
words : 

“ Enter thou, long lost Wanderer, called 
and chosen, enter thou, into my habitation.” 

With bowed head, she steps across the 
threshold into the Interior. The rended 
veil at once falls behind her, in its perfected 
oneness. So to be parted, again and again, 
by the chosen ones who shall come after. 

Upon her entrance therein, the darkness 
clears away. Once more in tones of 
entrancing melody come words, not to be 
put lightly aside : 

“Lift thine eyes, Oh, thou child of the 
sun! That I may see their light! ” 

She obeyed. Then the High Priest 
questions: “Art thou instructed?” With 
the song-like voice of the heavens she 
answers: “I am instructed.” Turning his 
fine eyes toward her, eyes far-reaching, 
dark and tender, touched with the glory of 


75 


An /Hlantian Memory. 

many suns as lie looked into her own shin- 
ing orbs, he said : 

“Tell me what thou seest, Oh, Daughter 
of Apollo ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


S HE lifts her eyes. Over her floats 
hazily the mantle of Inspiration. 
Distinctly, without hesitation, she 
describes that which flashes before her, 
as seen through the fragile curtain of 
vision. 

“I see thee standing before an altar of 
Alabaster, in a Four Square habitation. 
The transparent altar is surmounted by a 
Lotus Leaf, upon which rests a full-blown 
Lotus blossom, in the center of it burns 
eternally the undying fire of fraternal char- 
ity, symbol of Love. I also see from this 
Lily-crowned altar, diverging lines of radia- 
tion, broadening and growing fainter in out- 
line and color. As they extend, they reach 
the outer circumference of the Bungalow. 

“And Oh, thou Priestly Master, who 
ere thou art, as I look more deeply into the 
Interior, twelve sections of precious metals 
inlaid with cunning workmanship, unfold 


/In /Hlantian Memory. 77 

before me. Each division is encrusted with 
a gem. Each gem vibrates its own color 
from the center of the Altar, where the 
pure white light glows and from which 
emanates the seven rainbow tints. Each 
tint picks up its own vibrating ray and 
bears the weight of its influence through 
the totality of the twelve final colors, to the 
utmost extent of their periphery. This 
circumference, extending, enlarging and 
encompassing, is as lasting as Infinity and 
as endless as Eternity.” 

The vision here, becomes too dazzling 
to be further described in words. But as 
her eyes respond to the impulse of the 
trained Will, her senses no longer tremble 
before the manifestation of the idealities of 
the Divine World. She looks steadily and 
beseechingly at the High-Priest and said: 

“Oh, tell me, Master of the Inner Wis- 
dom! Why this bewilderment of percep- 
tion? Why this chaos of dazzling beauty? 
Touch thou, mine eyes with thy wand of 
Omnipotence, that I may see and read the 


78 


Her Bungalow. 

scroll unrolling for me. I stand beiore 
thee, for further instruction.” 

He but touched the Altar with the point 
of the reed which he still held and then 
said: 

“Know ye not, my Beloved Initiate, 
thou art looking into the Book of Life, as 
well as into the Book of Death? From it 
may be read the mystery of every sacred 
shrine. In all ages, there has never been 
set up a place of worship without its sacred 
Mystery ; from which may come all attain- 
ment of the Past and the Future. 

“These gems, my Beloved, are so 
arranged with regard to each other, that 
under right conditions, the vibration of 
each substance will harmonize with the 
vibrations of the Universe. As the pulsa- 
tions of the great currents of ether sweep 
by, these gems respond to its slightest 
touch, giving out to those who see and 
listen in the Silence, a vision of harmony 
and words of import. Listen again, see for 
thyself as few can see, the Divine World in 
its largeness.” 


/In /Hlantian Iftemory. 79 

Thus instructed, the Wanderer turns 
her gaze once more upon the ever varying 
play of color. She beholds, out of the 
seeming mingling, the emerald, sapphire, 
diamond; carnelian, topaz, carbuncle; 
moonstone, agate, amethyst ; beryl, onyx, 
jasper; these twelve, holding the impulse 
of the mystic sacred number, form a carpet 
of mosaic gorgeousness and brilliancy, that 
even the dexterous language of mortal, fails 
to describe. As the inner meaning unrolls 
before her; as suddenly as the wild note of 
the bird pierces the budding forest; so do 
again the unworldly words and song of the 
High Priest, thrill into conscious memory 
something of the long-forgotten, in the 
ages of sacred worship and fellowship of 
the Gods. 

“This begemmed carpet is the symbol 
of the radiance of Immortal Existence. It 
is quadrated by the Divine power of the 
One, delegated to the Four Great Builders. 
Each quadrate is trined, to show that each 
Builder possesses the triune attributes of 


80 Her Bungalow. 

the One, acting under tlie Omnipotent 
Word.” 

As the deep truth of the words sink into 
her soul, the charm of contemplation deep- 
ens. Her enraptured vision sweeping the 
ravishing interior, the light from the trans- 
parent altar spreads itself more and more, 
over the whole interspace, thrusting back 
the twilight dimness into the lesser day. 
Her eyes, in their steady restlessness of 
discovery rest upon the grouping of the 
Mystical Builders, the Four Great Angels 
who have ever builded more wisely than if 
they had not been overshadowed by the 
Divine, Creative Thought. 

“Each Warden of the jewelled triad,” 
continues the voice of instruction, “belongs 
to its own particular plane, and hence 
stands thereon.” 

After a furtive glance of survey, her 
eyes cease their restive search, lingering 
upon a figure standing upon the right of 
the Altar, guarding the entrance and the 
threshold, over which she is not allowed to 


/In iltlantian Memory. 81 

step until tested. In unspeakable ecstacy, 
she would have stepped forward, at once, 
into this ornate and polished habitation. 
But the Guardian of the Gate, the Angel of 
the Fire, garmented in His own unique 
splendor, lifts his consecrated symbol across 
the portal of the hallowed citadel, thus 
barring nearer approach. As a mighty 
Warrior he stands, brave, courageous, king- 
like in inimitable, flaming stateliness. 

His staff of Dignity bears foliage. 
Unfolding blossoms of the yellow-starred 
flower of the Sun, wreathed with petals of 
the same intensity, crown it with beauty 
and symetry. Emblem of Light, condensed 
Fire, forever looking upward! Its God is 
the Sun ! It always look toward its God. 
Its blood is resinous; from the rootlet in 
the ground to its star-shaped apex, its tex- 
ture is of fiery particles. It holds a strong, 
impressive lesson. Whenever oppressed 
by darkness, wait. When the sun shines 
for thee again, as it surely will, let thy face 
be turned thitherward. So will the light of 
truth constantly beam upon thy soul. 


82 


Her Bungalow. 

Upon the brow of this Fire King — the 
Angel of Splendor, is fitted a circle of 
Amethyst, badge of his own purity of intent. 
It shimmers and glows, from innate radi- 
ance, forming a nimbus of soft light around 
his lordly head. A robe of pinkish-yellow 
flame color, bordered with wide bands of 
purplish red, is loosely belted about the 
waist with a girdle of rubies and carbuncles, 
set in fine gold. The jewels quiver with a 
molten light, reflection of the Great White 
Throne — of the One. The girdle is the 
Divine Commission, symbol of all that Fire 
means to man. 

As the progress of the Wanderer is 
stayed by this view of magnificence and 
power, the High Priest, swings the fragrant 
incense bowl. The rising cloud of vapor 
dims the dazzling vision, which stirs her 
soul to the fathomless depths of its own 
mystery. Thus he speaks: 

“Ok, Wandering Vision of Light and 
Beauty ! Tremble not before the Guarding 
of the Gate ; nor before the sublimity of his 


83 


/in /Uluntian Memory. 

fiery presence. The flame, of the undying 
essence of the Fire God, must touch, awaken 
and feed the ultimate atom, sleeping in the 
chalice of every soul, ere the magic gate 
opens, leading into the Holy Place of the 
Higher Ego. Wot ye not, his power 
embraces not alone the expression of phe- 
nomena? His crowning work, is the power 
to touch into life, bodies that shall be the 
school for souls, I would have thee see all 
my habitation holds. So seeing for thyself 
it shall become thine . Look again, tell me 
more of what thou seest and which thy 
heart alone can call into expression.” 


CHAPTER X. 


A LL hail, to the Guardian of the Inner 
Sanctuary! With greeting and 
obeisance, rapt in a transport of 
wonderment, the Wanderer gazes 
steadfastly into what has hitherto been a 
hidden life. She discerns upon its own 
tripod of gems, an Angel, poising as an 
eagle trimming its flight in mid-air — crys- 
talized motion. Its vesture is a transpar- 
ent garb, of such quality that if but kissed 
by its brother, Angel-Fire, it expands into 
more etherial outline. The virgin of essen- 
tial substance, who giveth the breath of all 
lives, the Angel of the Air, floats before her 
as the symbol of Human Thought. 

The attitude is at once as restful as a 
Summer Morn, as forceful as the storm set 
in motion by its own intensity. Hands and 
arms lifted to the brow; she is crowned by 
a chaplet of flowers, as illusive and transi- 
tory as the Winged Goddess, herself. 


/In flUamian Memory. 85 

These flowers will be as cheerfully trans- 
ferred to another, and as surely, as they 
will bloom again at the birth of a new day. 
The fragile Morning Glory, dainty in color, 
graceful in formation as the Heavenly-hued 
Wearer, holds the refreshing dew, the wine 
of Life, in its lily-shaped petals. It fades 
but to renew its beauty. 

Out of the Silent air, again flow 
unclothed words of instruction : 

“ Consider well, the truth this blossom 
has for thee. It rears itself in mid-air and 
changes in a breath, as quickly as human 
thought. The flower and the Goddess 
alike, are a blending of force, purity and 
gentleness. The stupendousness of its un- 
derlying potency, before which all things 
material bow, is also as efflorescent as an 
air bubble.” 

The wonderful combination of beauty, 
strength and power threw about the Wand- 
erer a weird fascination; an uncontrollable 
desire to be crowned with the flowery chap- 
let. As before, under a momentary impulse, 


86 Her Bungalow. 

she essayed to press forward ; to fall at the 
feet of the beguiling Goddess, and there 
beg the boon. But again her approach is 
arrested, now by the Teacher of the Sacred 
Rites. Thus he speaks : 

“Oh, Child! Disturb not that which 
sleeps latent in the bosom of this, the 
Keeper of the Lives. The same element, 
invisible and intangible pulsates through 
all life. The impulse of all thought vibra- 
tion trills upon it, as does the hand of the 
viol player upon the strings of his instru- 
ment. Without its element you cannot 
hold to the earth life. Without food you 
may exist for days ; without water you may 
thirst for many hours; or so suspended 
that you cease to be in touch with the mag- 
netic joy and sweetness of Earth. But to 
be shut from the blessings of the Giver of 
Life, for a short time, is severing the cord 
holding together the boundaries of the vis- 
ible and invisible worlds. Therefore, Su- 
preme Power vests in the Angel of the Air, 
as Preserver, after the Angel of Fire, has 


/In /Martian Memory. 87 

stirred into expression, a life that is to work 
out for itself new results, and quickening 
power. So, is symbolized in Human 
Thought, not only that which seems to clog 
our progress, but that also which uplifts and 
differentiates our mentality, creating thus, 
each for ourselves a good or an evil world. 

“ Remember it is said the ‘ wind bloweth 
where it listeth, ye hear the sound thereof, 
but cannot tell from whence it cometh, nor 
whither it goeth.’ The changing,ever rest- 
less, never quiet, Spirit of the Air folds in 
her wings and crowns with her chaplet of 
Universal Glory, all who listen, linger and 
long for the Truth. Her glory already 
overshadows thee, my Beloved.” 

Scarcely, had the listening Wanderer, 
time to turn her thoughts and eyes from 
the etherial and spiritual beauty of this 
celestial Angel, than was borne in upon her 
the sensations of a tremendous impulse 
appealing almost with violence, to her per- 
sonal consciousness. As discernment and 
perception were keyed to their keenest 


88 


action, so is she conscious of every attrib- 
ute of the rock-bound, iron-barred condition 
of the Earth’s unfolding. 

The chilling firmness and solidity of its 
touch rests upon her. Through the clear 
sight of the higher senses, as if looking 
into the dimness of the far-off, she beholds 
the Angel of Earth. She is easily identi- 
fied by the opaqueness of her garments, 
through which neither light nor heat can 
readily pass. In pose, voluptuous, beyond 
conception; profuse in rarest coloring; at 
once prolific and prodigal, she appeals to 
man, as a perfect part of himself. Luxur- 
ious red roses overfill both hands and arms. 
Their passionate fragrance, for the instant, 
pervading the sanctuary, compels recogni- 
tion. This strong Angel seeks forever to 
make herself heard as well as felt. From 
her emotional lips touched by magnetic fire, 
fall these words, spoken in accents fervent 
and impelling: 

“Here ye, Daughter of mine! Before 
thou canst pass on to bathe in the celestial 


fln /Ulantian Memory. 89 

dew slied from the mystical flower of the 
Nile, thou must know that in my dark 
womb, all seeds of life are planted. They 
spring forth sheathed in their own protect- 
ing wrappings, which blend in such har- 
mony of purpose as cannot be imitated by 
man. Under the operation of the Divine 
Word, thy -Mother Earth began to evolve 
and lift herself into a condition of firmness 
and solidity. Thereby she becomes a 
sojourning place for vitalized unfoldment of 
both the lower and higher forms of 
Existence. 

“Listen and harken! Touch not care- 
lessly these blossoms so exquisite in fra- 
grance and color ! They symbolize the 
Divine Passion oil the physical plane; they 
adorn but to sting and wound the wearer. 
Not a rose grows or blooms upon the earth 
but its stem bears a thorn to prick those 
who would misuse this type of Creative 
Energy. The same condition exists for 
whoever drags the Divine Love down to the 
darkened conception of the lower planes, 


90 


Her Bungalow. 

misusing and debasing it. Whosoever 
bravely fights and wins, shall enter into the 
realms of unfoldment, thence into the per- 
fecting of a perpetual transmutation.” 

With the flower of transmutation 
wreathed about her majestic form; with 
waves, of green, yellow and blue limiting, 
and thus chained, the Mother Spirit poses 
in all the grandeur of queenly intuition, 
sublime and supernal. 

To her, the Wanderer reverently gives 
token of dignity and loyalty : 

“ Oh, thou, Crucible of the Divine Alche- 
mist! Fruitful in boundless plenty, I hail 
thee! Queen of the Elements, thou art! 
Praise for thee and all thou doest for man- 
kind!” 

As a rose passing from its full bloom to 
the falling apart of its petals; changing 
from bright gorgeousness of color, to the 
dim duskiness of the inert; so a grey, 
impervious cloud gathers around the Spirit 
of Mother Earth, like unto a mist from the 
sea, hiding the vision of rich loveliness 
from the eyes of the Wanderer. 


CHAPTER XI. 


A S this cloud receives the Mother 
Angel out of sight, a far off sound 
as of many waters breaks upon the 
sentient air. It carries to the ear a 
monotone as of the dew dropping from 
heaven into the silent sea. Interwoven as 
variations of a theme, is the wild dash of 
the ocean waves against the storm-worn 
beach ; the frivolous song of the gay little 
brooklet winding its way in and out to end- 
less Destiny ; the ebb and flow of the cease- 
less river; and the noisy fall of the cataract. 
All these form one composite symphony of 
melody, as sung by the Water Sprites of the 
long ago — of the present and of the ages to 
come. Mingled with sounds familiar and 
unfamiliar; with the meter of song pastoral 
and prosaic ; aye, from limitless space itself, 
comes a murmur proceeding from out the 
shining Interior, a soft echo from the golden 
waters of the river of Paradise. It is the 


92 


Her Bungalow. 

whisper of the Divine voice, speaking 
through its mystical interpreter, the Father 
of Souls, the mobile, the opalescent, the 
crystaline God of the Water! 

He is robed in his own translucent 
colors. A cloak of milky-whiteness resemb- 
ling in its pearly texture the foam of the 
sea, falls from head to foot. This in the 
light of brilliant gems, transmits all the 
tints of the Waters of Life, as they flow 
from the throne of God. 

The robe sways in waves of unrest, as if 
stirred by the subtle force of the Virgin 
Sister. But it is held in place, by a single 
jewel-anthered Lotus-blossom. Like its 
foster sister, in its center and upon its 
petals lingers the crystal dew, having power 
to wash away all tears; and whose essence 
is the balm for the “healing of nations.” 

In tones of purling trebles and chro- 
matic harmony, the Voice of the Great 
Waters, steal upon the ear of the Wanderer: 

“ Behold, I make all things new. What 
I say unto you, is true and to be forever 


fln fltlantian Memory. 93 

written in the Book of Life. From the 
essence of my mystical depths is made man- 
ifest the Divine Spark — the King of the 
Elements! By the union of the two, the 
King and the Father, our sister, Human 
thought — the etherial substance, formed 
itself into the blue sky — into waves of vital 
air, as intangible as spirit. Then the giver 
of Life — the breath of the mighty Waters, 
breathed through the nostrils of the Fire- 
King, in response to the imperative call, 
that is never delayed nor questioned : ‘ Let 

there be existence, as I AM.’ Thus called 
into equilibrium, we three, aided by the 
Angel of the Earth, balanced ourselves into 
the Four-Square City. Thereby creating 
the active principle of manifestation, the 
Mother Earth — the sustainer of all things 
existent. Behold, my Beloved, we come 
quickly to ye who are ready — who open the 
door of the inner Temple, when the echo of 
the undying words resound in the heart: 
‘Behold I stand at the door and knock.’ 
Not until then, will the twelve pearly gates, 


94 her Bungalow, 

leading into tlie New Jerusalem, be thrown 
open to the Waiting and Wandering ones.” 

When the angel had ceased speaking, 
and the Wanderer had seen and heard of 
the great Arcanum, she fell down as if to 
worship at the feet of those who had been 
her instructors, exclaiming in accents at 
once melifluous and entreating: 

“Angel of the Water, Father of Souls, 
bathe me in thy Divine depths, wash me in 
the mystical pool, whence springs the germ 
of Life and Love. 

“Oh, King of the Flame, guide my 
journey thitherward, with the light of thy 
torch. 

“ Oh, Virgin Sister mine, vivify me with 
the breath of thy wisdom ! 

“ Thou Sustainer of all life, I thank thee 
for the comforts thou dost bestow upon 
mankind. I pray the light of each may 
cast its beams upon the world.” 

As the sound of her last musical utter- 
ance dies into the silence, light as from a 
thousand suns bursts upon her, and breaks 


fln fltlantian IPemory. 95 

into numberless fragments the clouds that 
enshroud the mountain. Enrobed in an 
attitude of profound stillness; her noble 
and symmetrical outline of physique, is 
bathed in the transfiguring light of the sun- 
shine of Life. Is it the light from the 
Star? The light that cannot be born and 
never changes, except in its ever varying 
hues tinted by thoughts eternal and never 
dying? Or is it the light of the myriad 
suns of the Ages settling upon her? 

But the voice of the one who had 
charmed her thitherward, floated to her 
ears, above and amid the symphonic choir 
of the spheres: 

Arise, behold, thou art at the end of 
thy search. Thou hast become the light, 
thou hast become the sound, thou art thy- 
self the object of thy search. The voice 
that resounds unbroken through the Ages 
is thine. The seven sounds in one, the 
voice of the Silence !’ These angels have 
watched over thee, since thou didst pass the 
narrow gate, until thou shouldst be 


96 


Her Bungalow. 

instructed sufficiently to stand before the 
Holy of Holies.” Thus closes another par- 
agraph in the history of a soul’s evolvment. 

Before we pass on, let us outline the 
picture in full, we have tried to sketch as 
the drama of every searching soul. 

On the mountain of Peace, Rest and 
Over-coming, stands the unpretentious Bun- 
galow. The coarsest, heaviest wrapping 
often protects the most valuable results of 
Man’s perfected skill in art, or the most 
precious material. So it is within this 
home, the storm-beaten Temple of the Soul, 
hidden for a time from the pelting cruelty 
of the outer hurricane, stands the Waiting 
one. It is one who has been moulded in 
sorrow; carved by the iron hand of limita- 
tion and deprivation ; polished to an inex- 
pressible radiance of attrition by the mov- 
ing energy of terrestrial environment. 
More and more indrawn; more and more 
consecrated to the tediousness of waiting, it 
lingers for the toiling Wanderer. Who 
seeking, forever seeking, will surely part 


J \ n /lilanlian IDemory. 97 

the Veil, hiding the Real from the Unreal, 
the true from the illusions of Life. 

Within, behold the Holy of Holies, the 
Inner of the Inner. The tapestried walls 
express the wear and tear of the Ages, the 
endurance of a much tried existence. 
From the tessellated pavement come sug- 
gestions of strength, purity and repose, a 
fit foundation for the rising Altar of purest 
Alabaster. On this, as if fresh from the 
hand of a water spirit, rests a Lotus- 
blossom. Its quivering heart pulsates and 
throbs in unison with the moving waves of 
mortal thought. 

Before the Altar, robed in the majesty 
of his own accomplishment; erect in the 
consciousness of right desire; glorious in 
the unity with the ONE, calmly reposes 
the Waiting Soul. From the essential 
germ within the Lotus, a dazzling stream 
of light, mingling and quivering with 
indescribable color, expands to the places 
of the Four Angels — the Builders of the 
Earth — the Lords of manifestation. 


98 


Her Bungalow. 

Robes in their attributes, they wait on 
the soul that has attained. To the soul, 
searching, has come the supreme moment 
upon which ages wait; and upon which 
unfolding manifestation for future genera- 
tions depends. 

The Wandering Soul has, with strong 
hand, lifted the Veil of seclusion ; advanc- 
ing to the Shrine of the Inner, is again 
challenged, replying out of the truths of 
the hoary Past. 

With face radiant by the light of its 
own achievement; with form subtle and 
lithe, perfected by the action of its own 
powers ; she waits in poise slightly leaning 
toward the Altar and its Prophet. 

The eyes eager, questioning, intent and 
shining with the light which no outer sense 
can perceive; with lips partially parted, she 
awaits as best she may, the swift oncoming of 
the result of years of search and unsatisfied 
desire. Nor pen nor brush can paint, nor 
word depict this crisis of the Supreme 
Moment. 


/In /lilantian Ittemory. 99 

Fragrance supernal, color divine, music 
angelic. The harmony of infinite bliss is 
hers, as her hand clasping the golden 
chain of the Censer completes the last act 
of fulfilled obligation. The broken union 
of Paradise is once more joined and com- 
plete. 

The Quest of the Holy Grail is ended! 


CHAPTER XII. 


^ T^RAW thou near the Altar, that 
1 with me, thou mayest inhale the 

" sweet fragrance of the incense. 

It is the life-giving essence that 
reunites past lives and is the revealer of 
secrets. Come, hither and after the man- 
ner of the instructed, we will swing the 
sacred bowl.” 

As she advances closer, he stays her 
with the question : 

“Look closely upon my face and tell 
me, who am I?” 

Face to face, gazing fixedly into the 
magical depths of his clear, steadfast eyes, 
she reads her answer. In low, tremulous 
tones she said: 

“ Thou art an High Priest, a helper of 
the people.” 

So speaking, by the training of long 
experience, she laid her hand, as it should 
be, upon the swinging Censer. Slowly 


/In /Hlantian Memory. 101 

moved the Golden Bowl. Higher and 
higher, more diffused became the cloud of 
perfumed vapor. As it enfolded them, it 
became a veil of separation from the envi- 
ronment; the vista of endless years with- 
holds its power of distance; the Past and 
the Present embrace each other; the misty 
mantles of Illusion drop from the Wander- 
ing and the Waiting ones. 

In an instant, the memories of all lives 
are joined, they are fully revealed one to 
the other. Again, in the marvellously 
toned voice, trained to its melodiousness 
through the forgetfulness of everything but 
tender, self-sacrificing love, he said : 

“Look again, oh, thou beauteously clad 
Wanderer, tell me who thou art and what 
am I to thee?” 

Behold ! A new light is borne in upon 
each. The morning of a new day has 
dawned ; as mighty in its dawning, as when 
the Great Charioteer, standing in her char- 
iot, handling the reins of the Divine steeds, 
urges them above the horizon, decorated in 


102 Her Bungalow. 

all the marvellous glory of Aurora’s fresh- 
est handiwork. 

In the freshness as of the morning, he 
is revealed to the Wanderer as a perfected 
Apollo type, in the prime of ripened man- 
hood, sweet, gentle, in all the kingliness of 
the High Priesthood, the Omnipotence of 
his power at its height. His threefold love 
beams forth from every glance of his wond- 
erful eyes, and his face shines as it is the 
“ Sun’s nature to shine.” 

For him, is a vision, the fairest the sun 
ever shone upon. It is the embodiment of 
all gracious womanhood, young, fair, the 
vestal over all others in the Great Temple. 
It recalls the never-dying flame on the altar, 
as one and inseparable, with this child of 
the Fire. 

With the inhalations of the rising fra- 
grance, a soft chime, as of golden peals 
sound through the air, voicing blessings 
from the angelic choir. Glorious forms of 
realized perfection have become saliently 
visible. Penetrating and brooding in soft- 


/In flllantian Iflemory. 103 

ened tints, over and throughout the Bunga- 
low, are shed the prismatic hues of light 
always illumining the inner chambers of an 
awakened soul. Personal harmony, thus 
speaking from its own plane, receives 
response from personal sense, as the Divine 
Creator intended it should be. 

To this renewed expression of two in 
one, words add themselves from out the 
Great Silence. It is the voice of the 
Watcher of the Gate of Paradise who sagely 
choosing from the wisdom of the ages, 
says: 

“The true marriage is perfect harmony. 
It exists from the moment of creation or 
re-creation, and cannot be lessened or added 
to. Ye have now knowledge of what the 
years have carried in trust, since the Gates 
of Paradise closed behind you. 1 Getting 
married ’ is a misnomer. Marriage is the 
mutual recognition of two yearning souls 
after ages of separation. Spirit substance 
is constantly flowing for you, from the Sun. 
This is one in essence, dual in manifesta- 


104 Her Bungalow. 

tion. Ye make your own separations, 
whether present or absent, for spirit has 
only unity. Therefore, in the true mar- 
riage, Duality manifests at the first, thus 
veiling the One, who is the All in All. 
Children of the Sacred Fire! Learn to live 
the love of the angels, which is yours as the 
guerdon of accomplishment. Separation is 
no more between thee! ” 

As fades away the song of the spheres, 
so lapses the voice of the Watcher at the 
Gate into the Infinite Stillness. The 
senses for a moment cease to minister to 
soul growth. The quenchless fire burns 
higher and higher. The waters of life 
blend as do the waters of a great ocean. 
The magnetic soul current vibrates in an 
ecstacy of power. Revealed to each other, 
once more they raise aloft the mystic 
Chalice. Clasping hands in the Four- 
Square sign of perfected power, they at 
once rise into that condition of oneness 
whence it is possible for both to know that 
“GOD IS LOVE.” Amidst this ceremon- 


ifn fltlantian Ittemory. 105 

ial chant of the essential elements, their 
nuptials are celebrated. The supreme joy 
of that day, is the joy of all other days, 
when souls so attuned meet in true fellow- 
ship. 

The Four Great Angels recede into the 
uttermost corners of the habitation; the 
bells chime with more melodious clearness. 
The incense vapor curls in vortex rings, 
rising higher and yet higher, until its per- 
fume blends with the rose-yellow tints, 
growing ever more golden. The angel 
forms spread their wings simultaneously, 
as if one great Archangel; hovering afar 
off from a scene which is too sacred for 
even angels to witness. 

Slowly, with hand still clasping hand in 
delicious tenderness of expression, they 
move toward the barrier that has protected 
them from the intrusion of the restive 
world. The splendor of the great curtain 
trembles. Behind it dwells Omniscience, 
the attainment of which has been typified 
by its lifting. They are to further undergo, 


106 Her Bungalow. 

the ordeal of the curtain again falling 
behind them. But thanks to the Father of 
Love! They shall pass this limitation in 
the supporting devotion of undying com- 
panionship. Alone they had come. In the 
sweet sufficiency of satisfying presence they 
go hence. 

When the curtain shall have fallen 
behind them, will it forevermore remain 
down? As they approach the entrance, 
the thickness of the Veil vanishes to a twi- 
light glimmer; then to a filmy mist. Fin- 
ally, as if parted by the hands of the 
Angels, the great shadow of the unmani- 
fested parts in twain. 

The Dual soul never more to be twain, 
steps out on the mountain plateau. 

They face the setting sun from the 
crest of the mountain. Slowly it sinks 
into the fathomless horizon, tinting them 
with its dying gorgeousness, the rays of 
which no painter’s brush can touch into 
life. 

She wears the crown of her own desire, 


f \ n iltlanlian Memory. 107 

having realized once for all the full fruition 
of a perfected love. As the face of the 
Great Lawgiver, when coming from the 
immediate Presence, so was the light upon 
face of the High Priest. His robe and 
entire bearing is transparently glorified by 
the infusion of the divinely human love, 
which has been poured over him as the oil 
of consecration. Both attest through the 
immortal fire of inspiration, that they have 
been touched by the magic wand of the 
Four Great Angels; and as the old passed 
away, so all things became new. 

The entrance leading into the new 
world lay before them. The dim outline of 
the Past fades into absolute nothingness. 
All possessions are at their feet. Will they 
deem the lifting of them too great a sacri- 
fice? The sun sinks lower and grows more 
resplendent in its crimson robe. The 
arbutus on the rocky uplift begets a more 
purplish tint, as it burys deeper in the 
shadow of its green bedding. The rocky 
promontories, moss-covered, resemble erner- 


108 


Her Bungalow. 

aid juttings. The entire mountain is trans- 
figured as with a baptism of concentrated 
power. Beneath, and far beyond the sight, 
lay the freshness of the valley plain. The 
minarets and roofs of the City Beautiful, 
point skyward, glittering in the sunset air, 
as a forest of white and gold. It is a city 
finished in its completeness. Its Alabaster 
Temple stands clear in its whiteness. The 
great transparent dome shines brilliantly, 
reflecting the rosy twilight in a thousand 
tints. 

Crowned and robed in their new found 
vestments, they, the Wandering and Wait- 
ing Souls, are enveloped in the eternal 
embrace of the benison of Love and Peace. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


T HE solemnity of the Angelus hour 
deepens. It is the hour belonging 
to the soul seeking to face the Self; 
it is then, the tone of its own sounds 
are intensest and most resonant — the hour 
of keenest vibration on the line of all 
Nature. It is the Silence that belongs to 
the soul of things. 

Silence! Silence! Silence! In the 
darkness of thy Stillness all things are 
rooted and centered. The tear drop shed 
from many heart throbs, springs from thy 
fathomless depths, diffusing itself in the 
soundless ocean that encircles the world. 
The silvery, ringing laughter of fast bud- 
ding maidenhood comes from thy profound 
abyss of joy; rippling away into a death- 
less quiet, leaves but the echo of its endless 
vibration on the barrier closing over the 
grave of maiden youthfulness. But it opens 
again at the touch of Woman, who awaken- 


110 Her Bungalow. 

in g in time, learns the lessons that await 
her. 

Silence, Oh, thou Silence! Who has 
not felt the power of thy retreating 
influence? Who has not felt the peaceful- 
ness of thy serene domain? Always restful 
yet unrest is conceived within thy womb. 
Both joy and sorrow are incubated under 
thy maternal wings and nurtured in the 
phantoms, that linger forever near, ready 
to manifest according to the Seer, be he 
positive or negative. 

The stillness of the boundless silence 
enshrouds the mountain. The lilac, mauve- 
tinted twilight is pierced by the red rays of 
the sun, now swiftly on its beneficent jour- 
ney to other worlds. All Nature is making 
ready to close her eyes for rest, that 
through the darkness of night she may 
grow into the light of the coming day. 

In the sublime harmony of the hour, 
standing close together, the Wandering 
and Waiting souls contemplate the oncoming 
of change, the inevitable. In eye, face and 


fin flilantian Memory. Ill 

pose tliey express all the most gracious 
attributes of Love Divine and Human. 
Neither speak. Their gaze is turned tran- 
quilly toward their beloved city. 

The chiming bells reverberate in the 
distant air, growing fainter and fainter. 
The angels waft a musical sigh, as they 
retreat into the star-lit vault of the Eastern 
sky. The mystical hymn of “ Eternal 
Day” issuing from the Holy of Holies, dies 
away in the silence of the Bungalow. The 
star, symbol of Life and Immortality, now, 
loosed itself from the pinnacle, and as 
a boat released from its moorings, drifts 
out above the gazers into the twilight of 
infinite distances. There, glowing, as 
temptingly as when throwing its beacon 
light as a talisman to the climbing Wand- 
erer. It whispers softly of days yet to 
come; of love and peace and joy supernal; 
of satisfaction, not satiety; of rest, not rest- 
lessness. At once, in the dim distance of 
the valley, arises a vision of the entrancing 
Goddess of Hope, refreshing to the eye as 


112 Her Bungalow. 

was the vision of Beatrice to Dante! She 
points to the Star, the star that forever 
shines, bouyant and uplifting to all Way- 
faring and Waiting ones. So will it shine 
on through the Eternity of Time, until 
engulfed by the infinity of space, the Nir- 
vana of its center is reached. 

But hark ! The stillness is ruffied, the 
harmony broken, by the muffled sound of 
many voices. They are calling for their 
idols as the Israelites called for the Golden 
Calf. The effect is as if a multitude, 
trained in unison, had as with one voice, 
shouted aloud. It rumbled through the 
valley. It swept up the mountain side with 
thundering potency. It brought with it 
the destructive impulse of a tornado. It 
swept through their hearts as the breath of 
a blizzard is wont to do. For a moment, 
the rock of immovable purpose within them, 
quivered, under the shock of this advanc- 
ing wave of almost irresistible desire. 

Then, with all the calmness of reserved 
power, born out of training of past lives, he, 


113 


/In /Ulantian Ittcmory. 

the Waiting Bridegroom turned to his 
Wandering Bride in words which bore with 
them the clear sense of justice, and said: 

“ Beloved, hear ye not the voice of the 
multitude, our people calling for us. We 
who have ever been and now are, their help- 
ers and councillors ?” 

“Yea, I hear,” answered the beautiful 
Bride. “We must hasten. But before we 
go hence, let us here in the presence of the 
angels ; in the presence of Hope the Blessed, 
and her effulgent Star, renew the vow we 
voiced at the Gates of Paradise.” 

Facing the fast sinking Sun, they knelt 
upon the mountain crest — a foot stool at 
the Throne of God! With voices trained 
in the Divine melody of harmony, they sing 
the wierd chant of the old Aramic tongue: 

“Oh, Child of the ONE! Oh, thou 
most magnificent and glorious Sun ! We 
thy mortal lovers hail thee ! We hail thee 
as symbol of Light, Life, Purity and Power! 
We bathe ourselves in thy golden rays, 
gathering renewed life for the Spirit, and 


114 


Her Bungalow. 

exhaustless strength for endurance of the 
physical and human conditions. In all the 
labors that lay before us, grant us guidance 
and ability to accomplish. Hail! Hail! 
We greet thee Lord of Manifestation ! Let 
a ray of thy beneficent emanation weld 
iuseparately and forever, the Threefold vow 
vowed at the Gates of the Immortal City. 
We hail Thee, Mighty Master of the Day!” 

As the final triumphant note pealed 
from the mountain top in the still air, a 
direct ray from the last golden sunbeam 
baptized their itpturned faces, hiding for a 
moment, the valley below. 

The obligation of the ages is renewed. 
The oblation of Love accepted. Once more 
the Children of the Sun turn their faces 
worldward. They arise, leaving behind 
the darkness of the Silence in the Bunga- 
low, where dwells the Ideal and the True. 
Again they open their consciousness to the 
bustle and confusion of human Illusion. 

Hand in hand, they slowly descend 
the Mountain of Transmutation. On the 


115 


An /Hlantian Memory. 

heights the mists of the ineffable, enfold 
the Bungalow. 

Has the Veil hanging before the Holy 
of Holies, fallen forever for these re-united 
ones? 



PART SECOND. 

A MEMORY OF A SOUL. 


CHAPTER I. 

T HE sun god gave its benediction. 
Then, sinking into the fathomless 
waters, carried the joy of sunshine 
with it. Mountain and plain lay 
enrobed in the shadowy folds of the mantle 
of night, now falling more and more 
heavily over the landscape. 

The Dreamer rouses for an instant, 
unconsciously startled by the duskiness in 
which all is plunged. But, she is held by 
a force stronger than steel, more subtly 
potent than electricity; a force as fascinat- 
ing in its certainty of results, as the tremb- 
ling embrace of young lovers is uncertain 
of future evolvment. 

Yielding to the sweet influences of the 
ideal world, conscious of having witnessed a 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 117 

soul’s inner experience, satisfied with its 
finished perfection, again she becomes 
entranced on the bosom of the mysterious 
Morpheus. Thus entering the Gates of 
Sleep, they close quickly, and so tightly 
that the opaque darkness rapidly induces 
lethargy. 

The touch of a hand pressed firmly 
upon her forehead, arouses her from this 
supine and apathetic slumber. A voice 
from out the temple of her soul, wholly 
awakens her inner consciousness, saying : 

“Arouse thyself! Waste not the hours 
of thy soul-life in slothful wandering 
through the Vale of Forgetfulness ! Awake! 
Awake ! ” 

Vaguely and sleepily, the Dreamer pro- 
tests against the intrusion. Alas! the 
Dreamer’s soul is but one of many, that 
shrink from the awakening of its slumber- 
ing latencies. For, does not the dawning 
light reveal the vampires hid in the dark- 
ness of the prison of Habit? These by 
their routine work and daily visits, obstruct 


118 Her Bungalow. 

the road leading to Destiny. The soul 
that can burst through the prison walls 
into light, may well smile when touched by 
an unseen hand; and answer without fear 
the voice calling from out the sublimity of 
the Silence. As the sleeping soul, so this 
Dreamer, this woman full of youthful and 
vital energies, protests against a disturbing 
element. 

But, being further urged, she arouses 
sufficiently to behold a figure standing near. 
A model of sublime proportions, symmet- 
rical ; flowing hair and beard ; piercing 
blue eyes; a broad expansive forehead; fea- 
tures benign, but firm and decided. 

He bears the stamp of one who stands 
under the light of the Almighty God, and 
sits on the throne that overshadows all the 
lives of the Ages. A pinkish-gray robe 
envelops his august form. Its dusky gray 
betrays its true fashioning, as if woven 
from a portion of the grim and dusty veil 
of the Past. It is held at the waist by a 
girdle, from whose clasp no fold is ever 


An fltlanlian Memory. 119 

allowed to escape. From the girdle swings 
the Golden Key which unlocks the pearly 
gates leading to the Four Square City, the 
City of the New Jerusalem. Its worn out- 
lines show its use through all the long cen- 
turies of existence. 

Gently and silently, the figure awaits 
recognition from the Dreamer. At last, 
falteringly she speaks : 

“ I know ye not. Why disturb my 
dreams, and what wouldst thou have of me?” 

In a breath as soft and low as the sigh- 
ing of the south winds through the sweet 
scented pines, he answers her in this 
manner: 

“ Oh, Dreamer ! Dream thou no longer. 
The time has come for thee to know that 
which has been stored for thee. Until 
now, it has been locked within the Casket 
that only the Golden Key can unlock.” 

“But who art thou, and from whence 
cometh ?” 

“I am one of the Gods and dwell in the 
far off Land of Mist.” 


120 


Her Bungalow. 

“ But what is thy name? The name the 
Gods gave thee ? ” 

Once again, in soft breath yet vibrating 
in august and holy accents, he answered : 

“The Gods call me, ( Memory.’ ” 

“What message bringst thou to me?” 

“Wot ye not the voice of many people 
resounding through the mountain top? 
Would ye follow the echo of that voice ? 
Would ye know the destiny of the Wander- 
ing and Waiting souls? If thou wouldst 
know, then is this my message for thee.” 

“But whither? I know not the way 
thence.” 

“ Come hither, and I will point out to 
thee the end.” 


CHAPTER II. 


T HE dusky aura clears. The Dreamer 
beholds the light and splendor of 
an awakening dawn. Nature, in 
undiscovered loveliness, lifts for 
Memory the curtain, hanging before the 
richly piled storehouse and reveals itself, in 
the great Creative Act of Manifestation. 
By which act the earth clothes itself with 
verdure; the leaves, stems, and stalks 
depending upon the lower atmosphere, push 
yearningly up into a higher life of develop- 
ment; thence, on and on, through the 
cauldron of transmutation, until the full- 
ness and joy of Nature in its normal condi- 
tion, is reached. 

As from a Mount of Transfiguration, 
the Dreamer looks down and views the 
magnificence of an ancient city! 

Over and beyond the mountain tops, 
where, in the circle of the eastern sky 
Aurora parts the curtain of night, the crim- 


122 


Her Bungalow. 

son and gold lines bespeak tbe coming of 
another day. Slowly the bands of light 
broaden. In universal quiet, Nature awaits 
the clearing away of the misty drapery 
enshrouding mountain and plain. This, 
hanging over the outskirts of an enchanted 
Isle in far off Utopia, forms a background 
for a perfect picture of a city, set in relief, 
against the shadowy gray of early morning. 

Low music of wild, strange birds, the 
call of the thrush bursting from its moun- 
tain home ; the sweet plaintive trill of the 
nightingale; and the song of the lark, 
mingle with the far off notes of the human 
voice, flooding the air with rythmic har- 
monics. At the feet of the Dreamer and 
her ancient guide, lay a broad stretch of 
plateau, green, fresh and of velvety smooth- 
ness, dotted with snowy tents, brilliant and 
dazzling. Further on towards the sea, rise 
heavenward the towers, temples and palaces 
of a proud and brilliant nation. Their ala- 
baster whiteness gleams pure and saintly 
in the mist of the early morning. The 


fln flilantian fftcmory. 123 

molten sea which lay far beyond, ripples in 
long wavelets, with the breath of the new- 
born day floating across its depths. 

The Dreamer and her companion move 
thitherward. 

Now, the golden streaks broaden and 
lengthen more rapidly. Across the east- 
ern sky, beyond the mountain, flashes of 
color chase each other in quick succession ; 
heralding the presence of the Great Door- 
keeper, who comes clothed with the spirit of 
truth and manifold blessings, to fling wide 
open the gates of the new day. 

With the increase of breaking dawn, 
Nature stirs. The great breath of Universal 
Godliness bursts forth, and curls in vortex 
rings unto the very gates of heaven. Mother 
Earth pulsates in unison with the Four 
Builders. By him who listens, may be 
heard the Matin hymn of Nature’s angels. 

At this moment the sun lifts its golden 
head above the horizon line, there lingers 
for a moment, only a moment. Then sud- 
denly swings out above the vista, as a per- 


124 


Her Bungalow. 

fectly trained athlete springs into the arena. 
Now, like a ball of gold resting in the heav- 
ens, a magnificent grouping of artists’ dreams 
and architects’ unabridged designs is 
revealed. 

Under the touch of the sun’s warm rays 
all Nature awakes. The lesser lights cease 
to shine ; the fading moon grows paler and 
paler; the air quivers with the whirr of the 
awakening Universe; the birds swell their 
low twitter into a jubilant shout, of: “He 
is arisen.” The shy, little violet peeps out 
from its mossy blanket, and lifts its blue 
eyes skyward, shooting forth messages of 
fragrant perfume, to be returned laden with a 
deepening richness of color in its violet-blue. 
The murmuring talk of the leaves becomes 
more and more audible, as their voices 
rustle through the sacred and mysterious 
canopy, formed by the arched limbs stretch- 
ing forth from their own parent stem. 

As the sun grows brighter in the East, 
the white tents sway with its lustre. The 
occupants begin leaving their quarters. 


fin fitlnnfinn Memory. 125 

Those who have reposed in luxuriant palace 
or hostlery, also step out alertly, with the 
air of eagerness and waiting, for that which 
will bring them in touch with the soul’s 
best food. 

The crafts in the bay put on their holi- 
day paraphernalia, unfurling to the gentle, 
morning breeze silken banners, which light 
up the silvery sheen of the water with 
varied color and expression. The fishing 
smacks and galley fleets, push out into 
deeper waters and there anchor. 

In the midst of this silent greeting to 
the new day, the soft-robed God and the 
Dreamer wait, a little apart. At this 
moment he comes nigh, and gently draws 
her toward the more central portion of the 
city. With a majestic sweep of the hand, 
he points to the broadening landscape and 
whispers: “Behold!” 

Before her trained vision the Dreamer 
beholds a scene too brilliant for words fitly 
to portray. The soul that has travelled 
far, in the fret and confusion of the world’s 


126 Her Bungalow. 

strife, finds itself entranced when first fac- 
ing the beauty and peace of an Arcadian 
Renaissance. 

The City of Atlantis lies before her. 
Smiling archly she breathes the glad 
tidings : 

“This is the dawning of life.” 

Ever and anon, a ray of light shooting 
forth from the horizon, flashes around the 
stupendous dome of transparent glory, 
which shines as a beacon light for sailors 
out of port. And also as a symbol of the 
crown, the men and women of Atlantis 
have chosen to wear, for their own glory. 
Now, the people have ceased dreaming, and 
are coming forth in greater numbers from 
their homes and domiciles. Imagination 
can not paint the gorgeousness of this 
wonderful city, when illuminated by the 
God of Day. 

Again behold, the congregation of 
people increase and gather en masse 
about a broad Plaza, which springs phan- 
tom like from the heart of the mountain. 


Tin Atlantian Memory. 127 

Dazed at the swelling throng, that continues 
to mass in waves of enthusiasm and glad- 
ness, the Dreamer turning to her guide, 
asks: 

“Pray, why this excitement? Whither 
this hastening throng of a fantastically 
robed people?” 

Before he can make answer, a larger 
concourse of people press onward past them. 
Athletic men, graceful women, laughing 
childhood jostle together in harmonious 
glee. 

The scene to the Dreamer is of ineffable 
brilliancy and magnificence. Color and 
form prevail to a superlative degree. A 
tableau vivant resembling a glittering 
bazaar lay spread before the beholder. 

The far reaching vision of the Dreamer’s 
inner consciousness, perceives an island 
continent, dropped as a triangular cut gem 
into a setting of blue waters, of a boundless 
ocean. Is it not the Paradise of which the 
ancient Bards were wont to sing? 


128 


Her Bungalow. 

The sweet-tongued guide said : 

“ Know ye not fair child, that ye stand 
upon the hallowed ground of the far famed 
Atlantis? No fairer land hath mortal eye 
ever looked upon. But lo, behold for thy- 
self?” 

Gazing steadily upon the scene, her per- 
ception broadening, she perceived mountain 
and valley; hill and plain; plateau and 
limpid streams, springing forth with rip- 
pling laughter and gleeful song, from the 
vast solitude of their mountain home. 
Thence they move on more calmly, through 
hamlet, forest and tropical gardens, until 
finally their waters mingle again mysteri- 
ously with the great ocean. Abundance 
reigns, plenty sweeps the land from moun- 
tain to sea. 

Backward and forward, in undulating, 
pulsating waves the people move, both 
sexes and all ages, like unto an army of 
calm, white gods, toward the Great Ala- 
baster Temple. 


CHAPTER III. 


W ITHIN this corner of Memory’s 
storehouse, the Dreamer’s inter- 
est increases, as the magical pan- 
orama glides past her. 

Again the Lordly Angel speaks : 

“This, my Beloved, is the last day of 
the yearly seven-day feast of the Atlantians, 
the celebration of the New Year. This 
morning’s convocation, is in commemora- 
tion of the Rising Sun. Thus gather the 
people from year to year, to listen to that 
which has been given out of the Silence, to 
those who as transmitters, give in turn to 
their beloved flock.” 

As the intonations of his voice fall upon 
her hearing, a cloud of the past bursts. 
Rose-tinted hues break in shining masses 
and fall with absolute purity into the 
changeless present ; which like a weaver’s 
shuttle, with an endless thread weaves a 
triune fabric, forever uniting the Hoary 


130 Her Bungalow. 

Past with the Golden Future. The inner 
coloring of past dreams and present myste- 
ries, cover the Dreamer with the splendor 
of their tints and the reflection of their 
designs. 

Solemnly, the music chants. More 
slowly the notes reverberate. At last all 
dies away to a sublime cadence. 

Crowds form still more rapidly in front 
of the great Plaza. Courts, galleries and 
colonnades are filled to overflowing. Strains 
of musical notes from the human voice, 
ring through the vibrant air. Bands of 
maidens and boys, some vocal and some 
orchestral, are massed in groups on the 
outer and upper porches and balconies of 
the Temple. Their flowing robes of 
Oriental hues and texture, mingle in gor- 
geous contrast with the pure white gowns 
of the leaders of the Oratorio. 

Silent expectancy reigns. 

“It is the Garden of the Gods,” she 
whispers, as a galaxy of vestals move in 
rythmic step from the center arch of the 


J!n fltlantian Iflemory. 131 

Temple toward tlie waiting, eager multitude. 
Soft white stuffs drape their lovely figures. 
A queenly vestal, gracious and comely, 
leads the beautiful host. As she walks 
with majestic grace, her outer peplus of 
flowing white blends and glints with the 
fresh blue of her under tunic. It corres- 
ponds with the pure aura of the primeval 
morning hour. She is crowned with a 
chaplet of myrtle. In her hands are long 
palm branches, crossed over her breast and 
shading the holiness of her upturned face, 
from the gaze of those who would look for- 
ever upon her beloved features. With 
unutterable grace the swaying host 
approaches. As the lithe and beautiful 
form of the vestal comes into view, and 
crosses the path of the Dreamer and her 
sage guardian, a sympathetic thrill, as of a 
perfect communion sweeps through the 
soul of the Dreamer. Faith, hope and love, 
bound up and flood her fluttering heart 
with an aroma of peace. 

The vision of a life, long lain dormant 


132 Her Bungalow. 

whicli has ever haunted her dreams, now, 
reveals itself after ages of search and wait- 
ing. The gate of the soul-world is flung 
open. The light of soul-consciousness 
beams upon her. As she enters the gate, 
many mansions with closed windows and 
doors, built for the self by her own thought, 
stand as a revelation of what each soul may 
do for itself. As she looks more search- 
ingly, she perceives but one window open, a 
glimmering ray from it connects with her- 
self, she knows that she, as a living soul, is 
gazing unflinchingly upon one of her own 
past epochs. The Real, the IS-IS, has 
become an individualized symbol of God. 
Through its ministering angels, is found 
repose upon the mysterious Mount of 
Transmutation. The action of Transfigur- 
ation causes the rays of atomic matter to 
melt into a veil of transparency, through 
which the soul world may be viewed. 

Above the pensive wail of the harp 
strings ; far beyond the blast of trumpet 
and the melting tones of the human voice, 


/la fltiantiaii Dlcmcry. 133 

the Dreamer hears the muffled echo of the 
words : 

“Behold the Vestal of the Temple, the 
Holy Isis ! See thou thyself, Oh, Dreamer ! ” 

The golden rays of the morning sun fall 
slantingly. His psychical energies strike 
the activity of her soul, and the Dreamer 
remembers ! 

The new day of a conscious birth is 
dawning; with it is born the thirst for 
immortality. She longs, with unquench- 
able desire, to drink deeply from the ancient 
fountains, in whose sunless abyss is buried 
the memories of the “ANCIENT OF 
DAYS.” 

The vestals who follow in the train of 
their high priestess, walk in couplets and 
threes. The former swing the sacred 
incense bowls. The trines, as do their 
leader, bear palms. 

Lastly, after all have passed, comes a 
beautiful lad, clad in scarlet vestment bear- 
ing aloft a chalice of burning and flaming 
fire, the symbol of the Crucible of Transmu- 


134 Her Bungalcun 

tation. His brow is bound with a circlet of 
gold, upon the center of which is carved the 
Winged Globe. The central orb is a jewel 
of fiery brilliancy. The wings are of deep 
blue gems, shaded into pale green at their 
fringed edges. His bare arms are clasped 
by bracelets of precious metals cut in shape 
and symbol, to accord with his office in the 
Temple. 

A broad imposing Dais stands in front 
of the grand arch, toward this, the pictur- 
esque procession verges nearer and nearer. 
The more nearly they approach, the louder 
swell the strains of music, until the quiet 
air is rent with the melody of voices. 

The subdued enthusiasm waxes into a 
triumphant salute, as the multitude part in 
trained order, that the sacred vestals may 
pass to the altar. There they form, cres- 
cent shape, with Isis as their central 
magnet. 

Afar off in deep minor notes, voices sing- 
ing the Matin hymn are heard. As they 
draw nearer and nearer the great white 


/In /fillanlian Memory. 135 

throng, they sound as does the refrain of 
waves breaking against a rock-bound coast. 

Then, suddenly as if the heavens had 
opened for them, the High-Priests appear in 
the midst of the kneeling virgins. 

Countless eyes in upturned faces are 
looking Eastward. They await the coming 
of the God of Day, returned from wander- 
ings in other worlds, to take up his work 
and purpose on this planet. They welcome 
him in all light and truth, as the potent 
symbol of the Infinite. 

The priestly Imperator steps upon the 
dais. He is vestured in most royal purple, 
with a turban of gold cloth twisted around 
his head. His words of invocation are few. 
For the Dreamer has already observed, one 
of the delights of this ancient garden is, 
that the thought need be wrapped in but few 
words, if the words be chosen fitly and 
directly applied. 

Like unto a vast, irresistible current, 
undulating wave upon wave from an 
unknown sea, the greeting of the High- 


136 


Her Bungalow. 

Priest, falls in rapturous accents upon tlie 
ears of tlie people. 

The sun grows brighter, marching tri- 
umphantly higher and higher, in the cir- 
cuit of time. Suddenly, with the swiftness 
peculiar to a tropical country, a flash of 
fire from the Eye of RA! A long gleam of 
gold shoots across the face of the people! 

In the same instant, the High-Priest 
lifts the Rod of Power, intoning: 

“ Oh, thou Sun, symbol of God, 

I claim from thee life.” 

The music grows more and more intense 
as again lifting up his voice, every soul 
cries aloud with him : 

“ Oh, thou Sun, symbol of God, 

I claim from thee life.” 

The rhapsody echoes through the air, 
thunders against the mountain and rolls 
through the walls of the Temple; intense, 
as the passionate cry of the soul for perfec- 
tion. Ever and anon, a tempestuous blast 
of trumpets drowns the magical notes of 
the human voice. The magnificent audi- 


An Utlantian Memory. 137 

ence sway visibly, under the psychic spell 
of this invocation to the Sun. 

Then, amid all the glory of the heavens 
and the concentration of the angel forces, 
the sun bursts forth in full afflatus and 
every knee bows in silent adoration, to the 
Fire God. 

The priests disappear as mysteriously 
as they appeared. The vestals retire in the 
same order as they came. 

ISIS, the Priestess, turning her sunlit 
eyes outward and seaward, lo, they meet 
those of the Dreamer! The Vestal moves 
forward, unruffled and self poised. But the 
Dreamer, overpowered by the burning orbs, 
becomes transfixed by the confirmation of a 
recurring scene. 

The dying tone of voices subdues her 
soul. The glitter of the sun blinds and 
dazzles her. The blare of trumpets deafen. 
The odors intoxicating, she is but faintly 
conscious that her soft-gray-clad companion 
continues near. 


CHAPTER IV. 


S INCE the beginning of days, sacrifices 
have been laid upon the altar of Fire. 
We are told in ancient writings, of 
common fire ; of holy fire; of the sacred 
fire and of sacrificial fire. 

But what means the fire upon the altar? 
What means the mysterious light; the 
incense soaring in misty waves, as a soul 
expands in exaltation ; the air heavy with 
its exhaled perfume; the solemn multitude 
of lamps, which with their richly wrought 
golden arbra gleam about shrine and taber- 
nacle? What? But that fire, ascending 
toward heaven in its pristine blueness and 
triangular shape, is the profoundest symbol 
of the supreme life-giving power. 

Watching the leaping flame, the triangle 
plainly manifests itself. The base below, 
the apex pointing up, is from the beginning 
put forth as symbolic of the Unseen, the 
Unknown God. There is nothing in all 


fln fltlantian Memory. 139 

the world that holds so completely within 
itself, all the attributes of the Supreme 
Intelligence. The point reaching upward 
is always the node of superior energy, the 
center of life and sensation. Hence, the 
apex of the fiery triangle must be the Abso- 
lute, for the real potency of fire appears at 
the moment of contact . 

The spirit of fire we cognize as life. 
Wherever God is, there fire, as the Holy 
Ghost, will also be. Wherever fire is, lo, 
there is life! Wherever fire rests, there 
manifestation will be. If fire be life, then 
it must hold within itself the Divine Intelli- 
gence. Hence the flame. The essential 
essence of the flame is Life — God. If fire 
is God and God is love, the essential fire 
must be love. The manifested fire can 
sweep away all man’s possessions, and des- 
troy his body, but the essence dropping 
into the secret place of the MOST HIGH, 
the maelstrom or vehicle, which holds 
within itself the unseen charm of all exist- 
ence, lights the flame that makes man 
Immortal. 


140 


Her BuiiflabUh 

Wherever man worships, the lights 
burning upon the altar, are symbolical of 
the Divine Energy, of generation and 
regeneration. These flaming lights encircle 
the most holy point of the ancient mosques. 
They glow in ambient beauty about the 
shrine of saints in the churches of the 
Eternal City. They burn constantly in 
mystic attestation before the tombs of the 
Redeemers. Always and everywhere, they 
are and always have been, a silent witness 
and sign to the initiate, of the origin and 
significance of the Sun Worshippers. 

Man seeing fire struck out from the 
cold, unyielding flint, conies to believe, that 
the coldest, hardest stone must have a heart 
of fire. All Nature is built upon the 
Divine fire. The flagstone of matter shuts 
it down, waiting for the great Central Sun 
to drop a ray of fiery essence into the 
bosom of Mother Earth. It thereby creates 
sufficient impulse to cause it to stream 
forth, unwind its starry limbs, and step out 
into manifestation. This fire descending 


Tin /Ulantian Iflemory. 141 

upon tlie altar of Mother Earth holds con- 
cealed as its ultimate, the secret of life. 

The lily bulb contains the same forceful 
fire. It possesses the Creative Energy to 
rise trom the lowest to the highest. The 
Lotus is the whole lesson and law of trans- 
mutation. By its own function and growth 
the law of the Creative Energy acts. The 
gross becomes the supernal. The supreme 
atom of the lily and all else that is, has 
kindled, at the base of this Altar of the 
Waters, the eternal essence of Life, which 
is the Fire. When it reaches the surface, 
in manifested beauty, there burns within 
its bosom — white Chalice of the Gods, the 
Heart of Fire— the tongue of flame of the 
Holy Spirit. Having descended into mat- 
ter for the purpose of taking hold of the 
material, it converts the opaque into the 
brilliant purity of the highest transmuta- 
tion. The Holy Spirit does not really 
descend, but only places Itself in touch 
with that which is lower. 

The fire springing out of the etheric and 


142 


Her Bungalow. 

auraic vibrations, is the highest esoteric 
fire, born of the spontaneous action of the 
positive and negative forces. We gaze with 
awe upon its multiform shapes ; its trails of 
sparks ; its flame wreaths ; scintilating, wav- 
ing arches and vortices, starting up out of 
the matrix of apparent solidity, reducing its 
source to its own ultimate invisibility. 

Flame is significant of rebirth and resur- 
rection; of the spiritual born out of the 
material. It is symbol and substance at 
once, of the immortality of the Ego. Hence 
the Angel of the Fire hath dominion. 
Above all, is the glowing supernal flower of 
Love, concealed in the inanimate womb of 
matter. The great love of the physical 
world, whose warmth and ardor destroys 
the material and perceptible form, is symb- 
olized by the enwrapping flame. Freed 
from its prison of limitation and thus form- 
less, it gives rebirth to the spirit, in both 
the Seen and the Unseen worlds. 

The Fire God, the beautiful, the resplen- 
dent! Conceived in the Laud of Silence! 


/In /ttlantian IDemory. 143 

Born out of the womb of Mystery! Thou 
art the Shadow of the Shadowless ! Thou 
art the Causeless Cause! The existent 
God. 

“This is thy present wheel, said the 
Flame to the Spark. Thou art myself, my 
image, and my shadow. I have clothed 
myself in thee.” 


CHAPTER V. 


T HE people kneel in solemn silence. 
The soft melodies of youthful voices 
swell and sink in echoing cadences ; 
they mingle with the splash of 
myriad fountains, rising and falling to the 
tune set by the invisible choir. The sun- 
light flashes through the balancing waters, 
resembling a shower of rainbow brilliants, 
as they break and settle back into the 
limpid pools. 

Not until the last, dying echos of voices 
cease; the vision of retreating maidens, hid- 
den within the Temple walls; and only the 
sweet fragrance of intoxicating odors linger, 
is the first movement made to arise. Then 
the great, kneeling mass comes to its feet, 
and moves away from the hallowed spot. 
A great army of white-robed worshippers, 
artistically vestured, they scatter through 
the beautiful city and its environments; 
each to his own avocation and pleasure. At 
last, all have disappeared. 


/In Atlantinn Memory. 145 

Tlie sun climbs higher and grows 
brighter. Only the two spectators are left, 
where shortly before a moving multitude of 
humanity had invoked the great Center of 
Life, for life! Symbol of the one Sun, one 
Fire, one Light! The Fire from which is 
kindled all the lesser fires ; the Light from 
which all other lights are generated ; the 
Sun around which the universal system of 
suns revolves in awful majesty. 

The glance of the Divine Isis, whose 
potent charm has fascinated the Dreamer, 
reveals the true mission of the Lordly Mes- 
senger, who is turning for her a page of 
forgotten lore. Her own soul identifies its- 
elf with that of the Wanderer, who having 
travelled laboriously up the Mount of Trans- 
mutation, now enjoys, in the Promised 
Land, the fruit of the seed sown thereby. 

The sun hangs high in the vast zenith. 
The two move nearer the magnificent build- 
ing which stands apart from the others. 
A scene of splendor and gorgeousness 
unveils before them. A tall, white Tower, 


146 


Her Bungalow. 

resting upon a base of immense diameter, 
rears itself into the blue ether. It springs 
from a mass of white alabaster imbedded in 
the mountain depths, and rises as a celes- 
tial verity out of its recesses. 

For a moment the limpid sky, clear and 
blue, until now undisturbed by either offend- 
ing or defending forces, is shadowed by 
flecks of clouds, which gather and break 
away. Ever and anon they cluster 
in the mammoth canopy. Finally, lifting 
themselves far into the ether, they melt 
away in the musical sunshine. The sky, 
now blue and unclouded, unflecked by a 
single, lingering shadow gives no sugges- 
tion of a coming storm. Like the with- 
drawing of a veil by a master hand, the 
dazzling white temple is yet more clearly 
revealed. 

Abnormally excited, every nerve tense, 
as yet dazed by the recognition of the 
Divine Isis, as though beholding a vision in 
a magic mirror, the Dreamer turns to her 
ever serene guide and says : 


fln iHlantian Memory. 147 

“ Wouldst tliou find a resting place, in 
the shady palm groves; or amongst the riot 
of roses offering their petals to every zephyr, 
in this ancient garden ? ” 

So passing over, opposite the broad 
Plaza, upon which the inspired throng had 
stood in the early morning, her companion, 
said: 

“Let us rest under the shade of the 
Acacia trees.” 

Then, not until then, did the eye and 
soul of the Dreamer revel in the grandeur 
of the surroundings. Great mountain 
peaks, dotted with palaces ; builded of the 
whitest alabaster, the roofs covered with 
gold and silver against a setting of blue 
sky, rest majestically on the green plateau. 
The waters of the harbor stir into deeper 
and higher waves, as the sun and tide 
touch them with greater vibration. The 
magnificent galleys glide over its surface. 
Coming and going to and from all parts of 
the world, they are operated not by sail nor 
steam, but by the quickening power of ele- 


148 


Her Bungalow. 

mental force. They are governed and 
guided by the will power of their potent 
commanders, whose vessels move always 
wherever they will. Trains of wagons also 
move noiselessly and swiftly, upon the 
land, by the same unseen force, of which 
the Atlantians are masters. 

The air pure and etheric, the eye of the 
Dreamer grows brighter as the golden aura 
enwraps her. The freedom and buoyancy 
of the ejitourage give alertness to her mind. 
The Atlantis love of liberty fills her nature 
with the soul of things. Often times, the 
Dreamer had yearned to fly to the shores of 
this ideal country. But she had been held, 
by the lack of preparation and knowledge 
of the road to be travelled, to reach so unex- 
plored a region. She had often, also, been 
conscious that she lived on the borderland. 
But the process of searching and finding 
the road to the ideal city — OUR ATLAN- 
TIS — is ofttimes laborious. But the first 
entrance into its liberty-loving precincts, is 
a never-to-be-forgotten moment. We have all 


fin flllnntinn tttcmory. 149 

had conceptions of Atlantis, the Four 
Squared City. As quickly as the fire in 
the furnace of Transmutation be lighted, 
we are ever on the road thereto. The fierce 
flames of this fire must ever be fed by that 
which we most value, so serving as a torch 
at every angle. 

Atlantis! The lost Gem of the Sea! 
Of which poets have sung ; of which mast- 
ers and sages have made record, stretches 
before the gaze, in its vastness and huge 
dimensions. Atlantis, at the height of its 
glory, accomplishment, and code of social 
ethics ! 

In the midst of this ideal and pictur- 
esque scene, on a plateau of many acres, 
is beheld the most magnificent and con- 
spicuous building of the age. The great 
Temple of Atlantis! Its pylon towers; 
stately pinnacles ; graceful minarets ; clois- 
ters ; flower-bedecked courts ; the crown 
capped transparent dome, made of such stuff 
as the Dreamer in her modern life had 
neither imaged nor conceived. Its secret 


150 


Her Bungalow. 

chambers, laboratories and furnaces for the 
transmuting and refining of metals, are 
underground and entered by those who 
know, through a chamber behind the Holy 
of Holies. 


CHAPTER VI. 


T HE Dreamer’s Heart glows with a 
delicious sense of freedom. Filled 
with passionate enthusiasm, the 
pictured landscape floats across her 
misty vision. Leaning back, her light 
weight sinks more deeply into the bed of 
restful moss, which embeds the trunk of 
the Acacia tree. But Memory’s soft and 
ever-immortal wings waft to her, a deeper 
meaning, a more far-reaching view of this 
City of the Ancient Days. To the ever 
quickening interest the view expands, grow- 
ing broader and more limitless in the infi- 
nite distance. There again she beholds 
upon a broad extensive plateau, close 
enough to the mountain to be buttressed by 
its strong arms, the Temple. An ideal and 
wonderful structure, springing forth in 
graceful pillars from the rocky foundation. 
The plateau breaks in foot hills toward the 
level surface of the sea. 


152 


Her Bungalow. 

Upon the rows of pillars, rests a ponder- 
ous and commodious marble slab, forming 
the floor of a wide Plaza, of vast dimensions. 
This immense square, with its surrounding 
architecture, presents to the Wayfarers a 
magnificent spectacle. It is approached by 
steps on two sides, forming an angle. 
They are of the same alabaster whiteness 
as the main structure, and guarded by 
sculptured monoliths and deified heroes. 
The risers of these graceful steps are inlaid 
with hieroglyphs of precious metals, and 
carved heads in bas-relief, welded cunningly 
together. Around the huge Plaza, arranged 
in groups and singly, are statues of the 
muses and the gods. Each portray their 
own key to Arcane knowledge and wisdom. 
Some are carved in the perfect chastity of 
nudity ; others in flowing garb, each fold 
thereof, falling in lines of suggestive ideal- 
ism and harmony. The seductive white- 
ness hides the allusive voluptuousness of 
the hidden form. 


/in /klantian Memory. 153 

Beneatli all this, in an open court, flour- 
ish flowers of untold variety of foliage and 
profusion of blossom. A massing of ferns 
and palms, feathery and stately, nestle 
closely about the polished white of the 
walls. 

Here, past Memory drifts apace, con- 
trasting the fret and confusion of latter day 
life with the restful immortality written on 
this ancient landscape. Here, one has the 
feeling there is time enough to live one’s 
life, and the soul breathes repose. Here, is 
no hint of the presence of the Great Reaper, 
who finally enfolds mortality in his sable 
arms. Instead, there is a gladness of life 
and a divine adjustment of ownership and 
freedom, murmuring in and through the 
inarticulate charm of oneness. 

From the mossy, resting place, under 
the boughs of the Acacia tree, looking 
toward the Temple, the soul is filled with 
awe. Nor is the ravishing beauty lessened, 
by the cleanliness and purity of the struc- 
ture. Springing forth from its mountain 


154 


Her Bungalow. 

setting as pure as Venus rising from the 
Sea, it assumes the grandeur of a soul drop- 
ping from off itself the trappings of the 
flesh. The massed and glittering sunlight 
lends untold fascination to the magic 
vision. 

The center and either end of the Plaza 
are crowned with arches. The central one 
is of immense proportions. Words dwarf 
into pallid nothingness in an attempt to 
describe it. It rests upon columns of 
gigantic hugeness, each capped by the 
curled petals of the Lotus. It is covered 
with bas-relief. Inlayings of precious metals 
glare forth in their gorgeousness, as the 
sun mounts higher and higher to its merid- 
ian height, thus casting its beams more 
and more directly upon the noble portal. 

The swift-winged hours glide by, only 
too swiftly. Each moment is wrought with 
a subtle spell of enchantment and glamor. 
The jarring and smallness of personality 
fades away, and is lost in a sublime and 
reposeful activity. 


/In /lllantian Memory. 155 

Again, the whisperings of Divine Mem- 
ory fall softly upon the inner sense, saying: 

“Lo, my Beloved, the Temple thou 
beholdest is, as near as human thought 
could build, a fit symbol of the Temple of 
the Living God, the perfection of the One.” 

“But” murmurs the Dreamer: “Why 
is it that everywhere there are altars and 
pylons built for, and crowned with sculp- 
tured Gods?” 

“ Oh, my Beloved, those who rule in this 
fair city, the City of the Gods, acknowledge 
the One; the One-Potent; the One-Pres- 
ent; the One- All-Knowing. The imagery 
thou beholdest is but the expression of the 
One-Being in ITS various attributes and 
capacities. The Unity, Eternity and Infin- 
ity of the Deity, are each recognized by the 
expressed features of the Gods. Each bear 
the emblematical significance of his or her 
own particular stewardship in the govern- 
ment of the Universe. Understand thou, 
the doctrine of a plurality of Gods is not 
taught here, but rather the ethics of attain- 


156 


Her Bungalow. 

ment and co-operation, through the differ- 
ent relative forces in one God. With the 
knowledge of the Oneness of the One, and 
that the One is for all and the All is One, 
this city has reached perfection of govern- 
ment and perfect physical development. In 
physique the Atlantians are models, which 
any sculptor might he proud to copy. 
They possess also, intellectual vigor com- 
bined with the highest spiritual poise, thus, 
enabling them to grasp the secrets of 
Nature’s Law, demonstrating the glory of 
possibilities, which crown the apex of the 
social Pyramid. This apex has been 
reached by the nation. They stand, yester- 
day, today and forever the greatest nation 
upon earth.” 

Continuing, he said: “All social prob- 
lems lay in the conquest over the Natural 
and personal man. It is the continual pro- 
test over the Natural Law. Rising into the 
world of love and self-consciousness, we 
rise into a world of freedom and equality. 
A great teacher has said: ‘Man is a com- 


/In /Ulantian Iflemory. 157 

posite being. In him is the angelic and 
the animal. The spiritual training of life 
means no more, than the subjugation of 
the animal; and the setting free of the 
angelic.’ 

“ There is a great and wonderful epitome 
founded upon having, and holding in our 
possession, the key that unlocks all doors, 
and the knowledge of how to use and 
handle it. That key, is Love. He who 
loves lives; he who loves not, is dead; he 
who loves himself alone, lives in hell, 
because centering all the essence of exist- 
ence upon his own body, he burns and 
shrivels under the intolerant intensity of its 
force. He who loves others, lives in 
Heaven, because the desire to love and 
bring good, reacts and compels harmony.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


T HE symplionic eulogy ceased. 

With its closing sound, the 
young priest who had borne the 
Chalice of Never-dying Fire, in the 
morning service, appeared, bowing low, 
saying: “Behold, I come a messenger to 
thee from the Divine Isis. The noon hour 
approaches. She would have me bring 
thee to the Chamber of the Holy of Holies, 
that thou mayst, as in the past, witness the 
most solemn noon-day service. It is held 
in honor of Osiris, the great God of all the 
Gods. Thou, oh Dreamer, touched by 
Memory’s wand, wilt remember that the 
god Osiris is the God of Righteousness, the 
Father of all the Gods. The Eye of Ra! 
The contemplation of him is the opening of 
the gate that swings wide for those, who 
amidst the glare of mid-day travel, can look 
unflinchingly through it; catching glimpses 
of the jasper walls, and pearly gates of the 


fin /Itlantian Iflemory. 159 

City of Peace. Wilt tliou follow me? 
Come! ” 

Rising with alacrity, the two follow 
the guide through long rows of palm trees ; 
through thickets of roses laden with color 
and perfume; through avenues of sculp- 
tured sphinxes, carved of whitest marble. 
Every turn suggests the mastery of the 
highest art. After a walk of many wind- 
ings, they come under the shade of long- 
armed trees. Through a labyrinth of cir- 
cular streets, carefully sanded with snowy 
dust, glittering like diamond powder, slowly 
they approach the steps leading to the 
Plaza. Cool fountains and langorous 
lagoons, girdle green plats, like fillets of 
molten silver, lending their aid in temper- 
ing the heat of the tropical noonday. 

The magnificent beauty of the entrance 
which the Dreamer is soon to pass under, 
arrests her attention. It is then her soul 
cries out in its silent, ceaseless longing for 
completeness. Impressed and moved, to 
the depths of her being, glowing fervently 


160 Her Bungalow. 

with desire, she seeks to climb, not only to 
the highest pinnacle crowning the Great 
Temple, but also to reach the highest goal 
of spiritual liberation. The spirit thus 
quickened, carries her swiftly and uncon- 
sciously to the topmost step leading up to 
the Plaza. 

There she pauses, in silent and sublime 
attention. Suddenly, a crystal ball shoots 
up, far above the highest pinnacle of the 
Temple. It glitters almost as brightly as 
the sun itself. In mid-air, it hangs sus- 
pended, long enough for every soul, far and 
near, to turn toward the god-like symbol, 
type of the Good— messenger of Day, now 
at the zenith of its glory. 

The spirit of the hour, struck the key 
note of the diatonic scale. The full octave 
of spiritual harmonics chimes forth. Color 
blending in rythmic harmony with tone, 
reveals and chants the music of the sun- 
shine. No discordant note disturbs the 
unspoken, wordless chant. The luminous 
ball fades gradually from sight. Then 


/In /Ulantian Memory. 181 

stepping hastily across the broad, square 
Plaza, the Dreamer finds herself under the 
Grand Arch. Standing thus, under its 
capacious shelter, its width, height and 
breadth inspire her with a feeling, that it 
had dropped in its majestic entirety from the 
limitless Beyond. The stupendous, mo- 
tionless columns arrayed with stately pomp 
in long lines of colonnade narrowing in the 
distance, finally fade in the dim and end- 
less colossi. 

Moving onward they pass another arch 
of lesser proportions, but more gorgeous 
in detail. Here the workmanship upon the 
columns, shows the touch of artist hands, 
whose colors are vivid and never-fading. 
The same elaborate carving, the same over- 
laying of precious metals, is shown here as 
upon the larger and preceding arches. 

On, and farther on, in the dim, cathed- 
ral light of numberless tapers; through 
vaporous fragrance ascending from the fire 
of many altars ; until reaching five steps, 
they rest under a still smaller arch, yet 


162 


Her Bungalow. 

more resplendent in jewels and precious 
stones. Upon its upper curve the Winged 
Globe, outlined and inlaid with gems of 
rarest beauty, eternally spreads its wings as 
if for flight. 

Here the priestly guide steps forward, 
laying his hands upon those of the Dreamer 
exclaiming : 

u Hold, oh, Dreamer from the Earth 
plane ! Thou standest at an entrance lead- 
ing into the Chamber of the Holy of Holies. 
Pause and reflect, that entering in thereto 
transforms on the instant. It remains 
forever the experience of all time and 
becomes the wisdom of the Ages. Observe 
for thyself, remember as the instruction of 
measureless years; the shape of half-ellipse; 
the flanges resting on the out-stretched 
wings of the Four Great Angels. As one 
of the instructed thou knowest, this 
entrance must have the purest setting; the 
richest coloring; a perfect form and com- 
plete protection. Enter thou in! ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


S ILENTLY, the three cross the thres- 
hold, into the inner chamber. Out of 
the dim twilight of the interior, three 
altars appeal as entities to the Dream- 
er’s intuition, as well as to her outer con- 
sciousness. Because she is one of the 
instructed of the past Ages, she perceives 
how the aura from those chosen from the 
best and purest, serving for countless cen- 
turies, have permeated with vitality, even 
the precious jade of which they are builded. 
This wonderful triad of Fire, Life and 
Existence — the Sacred Logos, symbolizes 
the Creative Life force in differing manifes- 
tation. It is the Fire of Osiris, Isis and 
Horus! Osiris, at the apex of the pyra- 
mid, represents the I — the WILL, the 
Supreme and Eternal — ONE — ALL. 

Isis, the Divine, Creative Idea — the 
Celestial Mother! In her chalice is held 
the germ of Life, ready to spring into being 


164 


Her Bungalow. 

at the touch of the active energy of the 
voice of the Creative WILL. Osiris — the 
Sun — the Father floods with his divine 
aroma and love, the sweet, warm covering 
ever constituting the strength of the Holy 
Isis — Mother. 

This conjunction of forces touches into 
life, the child Horus. Expression and type 
of mankind — humanity — the re-born — re- 
generated — renewal, which hangs on the 
horizon of Eternal Day, as deathless Hope. 

The three altars are wrought as one by 
a chain of pure gold. A jewel, blazing with 
its own innate luster, symbol of the sleep- 
less Eye of Ra, swings suspended over the 
center of the triune altars. It is quickened 
into undying life, by the power that works 
in it. Unseen support holds the gem cen- 
tered in mid-air. No sign of its presence is 
visible, save, at the hour of concentration, or 
when the whole nation is acting under a 
single impulse of Omnipotent power. It is 
visible or invisible, in the ratio of unfold- 
ment of the beholder. As the Dreamer 


fln Atlantian Memory. 165 

draws near, the gem blazes out fiercely. It 
floods the chamber with prismatic light, as 
reacting effulgence is generated within the 
lesser fire of the altars; it tints the clouds 
of pungent incense with brilliant rays. 

In solemn silence they drop upon their 
knees. Like unto the with-drawing of a 
cloud from the face of the Sun, so the 
Dreamer’s soul senses but one Light. 
This Light flickers and burns in every 
crevice, and is all the same Light. In 
heaven, under the heaven, in the earth, 
under the earth ; no matter whether dimly 
burning in a remote corner of the world, or 
flashing from the Gate of Heaven — the Eye 
of Ra — the Light of Life is always the same 
blessed Light. 

The hour ends. They slowly leave the 
supreme and all-pervading quiet. Attracted 
by a low symphony of music as sweet, 
tremulous and restful, as the morning 
music had been entrancing, they wander 
toward one of the inner courts. 

Stepping out into the beautiful bower of 


166 Her Bungalow. 

roses, richness of life; sacred fellowship of 
Nature’s loveliness! Lo! High in the 
heavens midway between the horizon and 
the meridian sun, a crimson cross rests 
blazoned against the blue sky. The voice 
of Memory, once more sounds as clearly 
vibrant, as the whisperings of the far-off 
angels : 

“ This Sign in the Heavens is as old as 
Atlantis. It is the seal of a covenant 
between the people and the Gods. If it lay 
high in the heavens as though absorbed in 
the sun, it brings prosperity. It has so 
risen for uncounted aeons. But to-day, lo, 
behold! It rests low in the horizon, blood 
red, portending evil to the nation. They, 
the people will gaze breathlessly and 
aghast, as they look upon it. But their 
consternation will last but for a moment. 
Their faith in the powers, make it impos- 
sible to throw over them the pall of threat- 
ening evil. The Atlantians have always 
been foremost. Their souls poised beyond 
the bribery of gold, above the price of 


167 


J \ n /Ulantian Memory. 

success, they even now plan to wrest from 
the Almighty One, the mystery of Creative 
Power, acting under the subtley of Love 
and Nature. 

They would even know the secret vibra- 
tion that brings forth the flower, the blade 
of grass; yea, they would question of that 
which animates the animal into life; and 
clothes the soul in physical manifestation. 
With the absolute knowledge of certain 
failure looming up before the soul’s 
unflinching vision, yet, still, they dare fail- 
ure to reach the highest. They may, per- 
chance, advance one step nearer the ALL- 
Power of the Great White Throne.” 

Noting the words of her mentor, she 
observes that little attention is paid to the 
ominous sign which for a moment, lay low 
in the heavens. Contented and with rally- 
ing confidence, the people hie themselves to 
their homes and siestas, to prepare for, and 
await the closing scenes of the Festival. 

The Dreamer becomes more and more 
possessed with wonder, that she has never 


168 


Her Bungalow* 

before visited this restful city. Now that 
she is here, a feeling of home and heritage 
is hers. The true reason for the journey — 
the underlying cause, spreads before her 
like a broadening landscape; in finding 
Isis she has found herself! 

Following her fair and beautiful guide; 
journeying hither and yon, through the 
labyrinthine streets and thoroughfares, he 
draws her attention to the perfect symetry 
of form and equal proportions of both man 
and woman. Rapt in her own thoughts, 
soliloquizing, she says : 

“There seems to be no differentiation of 
sex in this beautiful city of Atlantis ? ” 

“Why should there be? Is not the 
soul, the I AM? Are we not equal parts of 
the whole, before the throne of the Infinite? 
Without question, each human soul comes 
from the Divine unity a cosmic entirety. 
No distinction is made in the innate value. 
It is an intense satisfaction to know that it 
is woman’s attracting power and man’s 
desire to possess the attraction, coupled 


fln fltlantian Memory. 169 

with His own forceful wish to rule his 
possession, that has besmirched and debased 
the woman of your day. All the way down, 
through generation after generation, wom- 
an’s kind thoughtfulness has yielded to the 
masculine element, hence lost hold of the 
helm, while man has gained in dominance. 
That which exists in your life of to-day, is 
but an individualization of conditions. 
Know ye, that duality is the necessity 
of manifestation; sex is but the symbol of 
duality. Here, in this ideal country, upon 
whose borderland you stand, there is no 
law of ownership.” 

“ Yes,” meditatively she replies, “Woman 
has not only been dwarfed in body, but her 
mental aspirations have been caged with 
bonds forged of steel.” 

“But ah, Woman. Listen, while I tell 
thee ! Behold the cycle moves upward 
sweeping forward under the light of 
Inspiration. The flaming glory of newly 
discovered truth melts into a metal 
more fusible, the chains which bind thee. 


170 


Her Bungaloun 

Links becoming more flexible, will be worn 
with the infinite grace of God’s own child. 
So shall ye claim your birth-right! ” 

The young priest, quietly smiling, said 
in answer to her soliloquy: 

“This manifestation and expression of 
principle is the corner-stone upon which 
the Temple is builded.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


H OUR follows hour, time passes only 
too quickly. The shadows lengthen. 
Once more the city overflows with 
life and happiness. The broad ave- 
nues leading to the Plaza are thronged. 
A continuous stream of life flows from all 
directions. Thousands pass under the 
magnificent arch of reception, into the audi- 
ence chamber; as many more claim place 
upon the broad Plaza. 

The Dreamer has been told in the many 
hours of conversation, during the day now 
ending, that the evening song and the clos- 
ing pageantry, is without question the most 
impassioned service of the day. All other 
ceremony sinks into insignificance beside it. 
Just as the lower edge of the sun dips into 
the horizon, a host of voices, led by a choir 
from the porches and piazzas of the Temple 
burst into a volume of song as glorious as 
the celestial choir resounding from the 
walls of Paradise. 


172 Her Bungalow. 

The sound of voices reverberates in 
quieting sweetness ; the enchantment of the 
dying day lingers in the softest stillness, 
throwing its last brillant tints against and 
into a billow of clouds — veiled suggestion of 
the Sublime Beyond. The lining of rich 
crimson, gold and dark purple, is a fitting 
symbol of the curtain that swayed, opened 
and closed, before the Shrine of the Bunga- 
low. It speaks of the untold treasure held 
in enchanted abeyance, for those who can 
sound the key-note of the mystic cry, that 
recognizes no denial. A few, heavier clouds 
hang fatefully over the peaks of the Three 
Great Mountains, in shifting masses of 
ominous gray. But the people are too 
absorbed to observe the fateful shifting of 
that which seems afar off. 

The White Temple gleams. The golden 
roof glitters as never before. Its vastness 
stands out from its colossal foundation, as 
an emblem of the Eternities — a symbol of 
the Infinite. 

The evening breeze tempered by the 


/In /Itlantian IDemory. 173 

Sun’s long journey, from horizon to hori- 
zon, sings its last weird requiem through 
the massed foliage of shining leaves, blend- 
ing nocturnal notes with the glad voices of 
the magnificent choir. Stygian shadows 
steal gradually over the solemn pageantry. 
More and more grandly, strains of music 
sweep through the sentient, psychic air; 
thrill within the Temple and pulsate an 
eternal inspiration, in the heart of the 
country. 

Music is God’s chosen Muse. The 
Atlantians, in their protest against Nature’s 
limitations, also chose the Muse of the 
Gods, as a step toward the higher morality 
leading to spiritualized mentality. Thence 
passing through the Gate of the King’s 
Highway, leading to Liberty and Love. 
The choice of Liberty and Morality, or 
License and Immorality was laid at their 
feet. The one the fulfilling, the other, the 
abuse of a law. They chpse the former. 
Each soul developed as does the flower. It 
sows its own seed, plants its own roots, per- 


174 Her Bungalow. 

chance in tlie most noisome beds of earth. 
But as each self-pattern drops away, the 
soul rises into higher consciousness, 
through a long procession of experiences; 
through soil enriched by their own joys 
and sorrows. Each as it grows into the 
light toward Heaven’s Kingdom, wears its 
individualized Crown of Existence. All 
thus enlisted under the same banner of 
Liberty, one for All and all for One, can 
hear the vibrating notes of Nature’s chords, 
touched into harmony by the unseen hand 
of the Most High. 

As the last rays of the sun fall upon the 
Temple; upon the palms; upon the garden 
of roses; with profound significance the 
notes of the Divine Harper are heard, as an 
underlying melody of the more earthly 
music. 

From the outer edge of the assemblage, 
afar off, behold, approaching a chorus of 
priests. Robed in vestures of gold, purple 
and crimson; grouped in threes ; with sway- 
ing bodies and uplifted heads they step 


J \ n /Ulanlian IDeinory. 175 

quickly and gravely to the refrain of tlie 
music. Following, comes a train of boys 
clothed as with raiment of the angel host; 
bine, white and rose color; transparent and 
clinging; embroidered with gold and silver 
threads, cut and woven by the seraphic 
powers. Some have fashioned around the 
head nimbus of gold and silver, upon which 
the flickering rays of the sun dance nymph- 
like ; and toy with, the vibrant colors of the 
air for the last time. Those who were not 
thus crowned, have wreaths of myrtle and 
flowers twisted in and out of their long 
curling tresses. All bear in their hands, 
and play upon an ancient musical instru- 
ment. Some carry lutes, zithers and cym- 
bals; others sound the glad-hallelujah from 
silver embossed trumpets, just kissing 
youthful and coral lips. Interspersed, are 
those chosen to lift aloft the sacred lamps of 
precious metal, while others swing the 
brazen censers of smoking, perfumed fra- 
grance. 

Brilliant as Paradise, magnificent be- 


176 


Her Bungalow. 

yond compare in material ensemble , so is 
this procession as serenely sublime in 
potent dignity, and graceful contour of com- 
bined youth and manhood. A continuous 
garland of ivy, roses and jasmine winds in 
and out, as with wonderful majesty, they 
moved through the fraternal congregation. 
The sound of song and cymbal, castanet 
and timbrel, in all possible variations and 
keys constitute the atmosphere. 

The two companions no longer linger 
with the crowd. But from the vantage 
ground of the morning, the Dreamer and 
Memory view the splendor of the scene. 
The boyish acolyte has made obeisance and 
gone to attend his duties in the solemn 
service. 


CHAPTER X. 


T HE power of music is redemptive. 
Did not Orpheus of old charm all 
things, by touching the strings of 
his golden harp? Has he not become 
something more than an ancient and myth- 
ical oracle ? He has not only assumed the 
form of a Redeemer, a master-mind, but a 
potent factor in the soul’s enrichment. 
One of the potential attributes of the 
soul is its growth toward the Ideal, 
the Immaculate Conception — perfection 
absolute. All Nature, with Orpheus as her 
leader, although playing upon the different 
notes of vibration, measures the same sonor- 
ous and dulcet note. The Organ of Eternal 
Harmonics — the Orchestra of Celestial 
Angels heralded the same hymn of the 
ages, when, the mighty chant — “Let there 
be ” — moved upon the soul of the water, and 
has ever resounded in glorified intonations 
since the beginning of days. 


178 Her Bungalow. 

The choristers encircle the altar eleven 
times. Then at the beginning of the 
twelfth circuit, the sonorous notes change 
to a low, weirdly impassioned chant. The 
effect of this change is marvellous and 
startling. The harmonies and vibration 
pulsate with an influence uniting, cement- 
ing, thrilling and swaying the whole vast 
audience, as a single, masterful and exult- 
ant soul ; no longer imprisoned, but rising 
higher and still higher, until each unit is 
transfigured by the mighty impulse of song. 

In the smooth, old Aramaic tongue, 
choir answers choir. The beatific litany 
grows more and more impressive. With 
rythmic movement of the body, they sing 
their farewell hymn to the Sun, thus: 

Oh, Thou Sun, symbol of strength ! 

Osiris, Thou symbol of Purity and Tight ! 

Oh, Ra, who art, was and ever shall be ! 

Eye of Ra, always knowing, seeing and never sleeping, we 
hail thee ! 

Thou mighty One ! Omniscient ! 

Oh, thou Moon, emblem of Purity, Tight and Strength, 
Queen of Knowledge ! 


179 


An fltlantian Memory, 

Oh, Isis, Mistress of all that makes man happy, 

Queen of Desire ! 

Thou, who standest for the Love of Mankind, 

Through the Love of the Gods 
We worship Thee ! We adore Thee ! 

Oh, Thou Horus ! Born out of the Unseen and Unknown, 
Full of life, strength and beauty ! 

Thou dost embrace within thyself, the Omnipotence of Ra, 
The Omniscience of all Knowledge, 

The Omnipresence of Infinite Nature ! 

We glorify Thee ! We bow before Thee ! 

Thou art the Hope of all that thou dost express ! 

Oh, Thou mighty Three ! Three in One, 

Looking into the face of the Infinite, 

We behold Thou art the beginning of days, 

And lo, Thou art also the end of Time ! 

Above all, Thou art the Triune ! Superb and Supreme, 
Re-creating, renewing, generating and regenerating, 
Throughout all the ^ons of Time ! 

We bow in Thy Presence ! We love Thee ! 

We bind ourselves to Thee as the earth is bound to the Sun! 

Every note of this passionate ode to the 
Sun is heard with perfect distinctness, by 
each soul in the whole, immense audience. 
The quality of the rendition was such, that 
it seemed to pour from the celestial Dome. 
Through the wisdom of the Three, aided by 
the mighty magians of the Temple, the all- 
pervading akasa resting over the multitude, 


180 


Her Bungalow. 

so thickened, that as from a concave mirror 
the sound reflected to the very outermost 
fringe of the great crowd. This condensa- 
tion of ether must be only for the occasion. 
When the singing ceases, the mirror of 
sound fades into the vastness of its original 
condition. This product of potency is thus 
used whenever the vast hosts assemble 
themselves on the Temple Plaza; whether 
to listen to the outbursts of choral sound, or 
to the musical voice of the High Priest, as 
he teaches them of that which most inti- 
mately concerns their welfare, in the now 
and the hereafter. 

While this transpires under the blue 
dome of the eternal sky; within the spac- 
ious audience room of the Temple proper, 
another band of choristers form themselves 
in front of the dais, before the Holy of 
Holies. At a given signal they burst into a 
full volume of recitative. Thus leading the 
grand choir of thousands of voices which 
pours forth from all the avenues, and resound 
from the great, arched roof in an overpow- 


ill! Atlantian Memory. 181 

ering, all-embracing flood of song. From 
the roof and walls of the Temple, arranged 
on porch and portico, musicians are also 
massed in an orchestra, that can be led by 
no other baton than the immortal Orpheus. 

Upon the dais itself, an altar is placed, 
fashioned of fine gold. This, used as a 
necessary adjunct to the ordinary routine 
of the Temple service, is more gorgeous and 
magnificent than anything ever before or 
since used for a similar purpose. Upon 
the altar rests a golden censer, and behind 
it is the High Priest Osiris, vested in the 
priestly robes of his office. A white silk, 
tight fitting cassock encases his well propor- 
tioned body, the front embroidered in glit- 
tering symbols wrought of thread spun of 
finest gold. Over this, a garment the 
sheeny folds of which, shimmering in 
waves of irridescent colors, seem, in their 
silky luster, like masses of foam ever in 
protean dalliance with the light. In the 
front, a breast plate attached to the should- 
ers by arm plates, holds within its twelve 


182 


Her Bungalow. 

divisions, twelve different jewels whose 
properties govern the months. Their size 
and beauty make them perceptible from the 
very outskirts of the throng, now waiting 
to hear the inspiration to be transmitted 
through him, by the action of the gems. 
This sacred vestment is one of the most 
helpful of all conditions belonging to the 
dress or office of High Priest — the master- 
piece of the Three. 


CHAPTER XI. 


T HE censer resting upon tlie altar, is 
fashioned after the pattern of three 
intwinedfish. Serpent shaped loops 
serve for handles. The whole, of solid 
gold, wrought upon five dragon’s claws, is 
beautiful and unique. Its symbology holds 
much truth and wisdom. 

The Fish is the emblem of the first 
unfoldment of manifestation from water, the 
Father of the Elements. It is the primal 
condensation of matter out of the restless 
chaos of water. It also typifies the begin- 
ning of each microcosmic year; when, in 
the language of the Ancient Fathers, the 
Sun was re-born, and cradled in Pices. 
The type of the macrocosmic year must 
then also be Pices, where the Sun in its 
pristine youth, obeying the command: 
“Let there be” started on its first grand 
journey through the heavens. 

Within the infolding of the tumultuous 


184 


Her Bungalow. 

strains of music, every heart throbbing, 
pulsating and fervid, quivers with the 
enhancement of the moment. 

Now, a voice, soft, well modulated, melo- 
dious and far-reaching is clearly heard 
above it all, like the still, small voice say- 
ing: “Here Am I.” Since the sound of 
the first note of the silver-toned trumpet 
had called the priests to their places, the 
Dreamer had been entranced by the over- 
powering splendor of the Kaleidescopic 
view — a panorama always changing, yet 
never changed; active, yet ever restful. As 
the tones of that voice floated across the sea 
of humanity and reached her inner ear, a 
shiver swept through her soul, like the 
re-touching and awakening of an old heart- 
song. Where had she seen this same pose 
and form? Where, hitherto, had the voice 
trilled her to the depths of her being? 
In answer to these silent interrogations, a 
scene of a far-off mountain top, crowned by 
alow-thatched Bungalow, floated before her. 
A low cry, burst from her lips, a cry of 


/In /Ulantian Memory. 185 

recognition, after long aeons of silence. 
Oh, the joy of finding that which is loved, 
and has been lost in the rubbish of the 
Temple, for lo, these many lives. It is the 
voice of the great High Priest Osiris that 
she hears. With bated breath, she mur- 
murs : 

“It is the voice of him, who, a Waiting 
soul, at the door of the Bungalow tarried as 
a tower of strength, with refreshing words, 
for her, the Isis, who had wandered afar 
looking for recognition. As he then stood 
there, so stands he now, towering and alone, 
lifting by his conscious presence and bene- 
ficence his people, and his nation.” 

Her face beams. Her body grows more 
facile to the invisible forces about her, 
drawing her further away, and higher up 
from the garish earth. But her sight is 
not dimmed, neither have the pictured real- 
ity and the sounds of music decreased. 
Memory’s robe becomes more rose-tinted, 
more and more vitally alive. 

With the love and sympathy of an old 


186 Her Bungalow* 

and valued friend lie answers lier spoken 
thought : 

“Behold, the awakening of the higher 
consciousness of each soul is but needed, in 
order to come into perfect cognizance of 
unity, of all that it can remember and 
perceive of the parting at the gates of Para- 
dise: Thou art but learning to know thy- 
self, Oh Dreamer ! ” 

The High Priest looking up with grave 
and reverend face, lifts the censer, intoning 
in solemn ecstacy the invocation to the 
setting Sun : 

“O h, Ra! O— h, Ra! O— h, Ra! 

“O h, Thot! O— h, Thot! O— h, 

Thot! 

“O h, Isis! O — h, Isis! O — h, Isis! 

“OM! O -m! O m! O m! 

O- -ml O M! 

Lo, See! At the last word there leaps 
forth a sword of flaming fire from the burn- 
ing coals of the censer. As if in answer to 
the appeal, every crevice of the Temple 
inside and out, is illuminated. The walls 


/In /ltlantian Memory. 187 

already shining with rare gems, glitter with 
varying color and rainbow brilliancy. The 
gold and silver sanctuaries; the alabaster 
altars inlaid with finest amber and gems 
from all parts of the world, gleam and 
glisten in the pure, white light; the golden 
roof of the stately colonnades, the pillars 
and arches, melt into a grand and harmon- 
ious spectacle. The faces of the people 
shine as under the brightness of the sun. 
The light comes not from the sword, but as 
if it were a magnet drawing the innate, 
from everything within the radius of its 
attractive power. 

The Dreamer is more and more enrap- 
tured. 

While this light spreads itself over the 
surroundings, a slight movement among the 
white-robed vestals, and from their midst, 
steps forth the wise and beautiful Isis. 
Clothed in a transparent, rose-colored gar- 
ment, she drew to herself the shining rays 
of the Light, so brilliantly that the sugges- 
tion of a sunbeam fragment still lingers 


188 


Her Bungalow. 

upon Her. The garment girdled at the 
waist with a golden belt of filagree work, 
falls in soft folds from throat to feet. Simple 
but magnificent, it carries wisdom in its 
folds. A wreath of Lotus blossom crowns 
her. From a long-necked, bronze pitcher, 
which she lifts high above her head, she 
pours upon the altar-flame, sweet spice, 
myrrh, frankincense and sweet-smelling 
balsam. At this supreme moment, she who 
is leader of the singing virgins and maidens 
waves her baton, and the mighty anthem 
rings out, solemnly and quieting: 

“Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of 
Gods! 

Holy! Holy! Holy! Be thy Works ! ” 

Behold! The vapor rises higher and 
higher, higher and higher yet; spreading 
and rising from earth to heaven. It floats 
out over the swaying multitude. It gath- 
ers sunset hues from the Universal Incense. 
Gradually it clears, until upon the pure, 
white ether, trembles in space, in golden 
letters, as if creeping from out the folds of 


/In Utlantian Memory. 189 

eternity, tlie words: “I AM KA” The 
overwrought and faithful followers, whose 
ancestors have stood in the same hallowed 
spot for uncounted centuries, filled with the 
feeling of the redemptive power for the 
ONE, are thrilled and spell-bound as the 
Logos glows in splendor above them. 

Gently and by degrees, the vision fades 
from the magic air. The sacred words 
linger in the hearts of the sensitive ones 
only as luminous glimpses of what has 
been. 

The High Priest gave his last words of 
admonition to the listening masses. Like 
the effortless sound of a celestial water- 
course, his voice rose and fell in pelucid 
rythm upon their massed strength. Lift- 
ing his hands high, he also gave the bene- 
diction and the ancient Amens. The words 
of power were accompanied solely by the 
low, seductive music which had continued 
uninterrupted throughout the whole service. 
At the last, the multitude broke forth in 
one sublime volume of the “Gloria in 


190 


Her Bungalow. 

Excelsis,” led by the chords of an invisible 
organ, played upon by unseen forces. 

So closed the most ancient and magnifi- 
tent, of all ancient ceremonies. 

The majority of the people lingered in 
and about the Temple until low twelve. 

The consciousness of the shifting of 
scenes is inborne into the Dreamer’s soul. 
Upborne in the spaces of the etheric world, 
she commences her return journey thither- 
ward on the uplift of the closing cycle. 
She once more yields herself to the awful 
sublimity of Memory’s last reproduction. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A LONE watcher, looking seaward, 
scans the lower edge of the horizon, 
now slowly brightening, until a 
light like a far off star appears, her- 
alding the coming of a greater messenger. 
The restless waters cease their tossing and 
moaning. The waves no longer break 
against the gray-white of the Circular City. 
The zephers seem motionless. Nature 
waits in silent repose the lifting of the cur- 
tain which is to reveal the rising of the 
Messenger and Ruler of Night — the Queen 
of awakening Perception, and of Creative 
Thought. 

The restful coolness of the shadowy 
light stimulates both mind and body. The 
band in the East slowly broadens, the misty 
vapor breaks away. No drop curtain hides 
from the vision, the shimmering light shed 
from the great spectacular scene laying at 
the feet of the potent Isis. For it is she, 


192 Her Bungalow. 

tlie Isis of the Temple, the Wandering 
Soul of the Dreamer, who watches thus, 
from a colonnade above the Plaza; swung 
out from the walls of the Temple as a broad 
shelf of white trellis work. So light and 
airy is the effect of it that only the angel 
host might rest their etlierial weight upon 
its graceful balustrade. The builders of 
the Temple knew this would be the rendez- 
vous and promenade of the High Priests 
and the vestals of the Temple, in the hours 
of relaxation and restful silence. 

The midnight moon rises higher and 
higher, casting her mellow light in a track- 
less path across the vast expanse of water 
guarding the boundaries of the great city. 
As she rises still more boldly toward the 
zenith, the silvery light forms a pyramid, 
the planet itself, the apex. Man as the 
center pole, the earth the foundation, upon 
which rests the base of the broadening 
triangle. The firmament of the everlast- 
ing Thought divides the waters. Thus, is 
continually symbolized the Creative 


An fltlnntian Memory. 193 

Thought, shedding its white light upon the 
earth. 

The shadows grow deeper. Their dusk- 
iness throws a veil of silvery sheen over 
the White Building, that in has relief stands 
out against the bedecked vault of heaven. 

The night is balmy, bewitching the 
senses as only the witchery of a tropical 
night, with its intensity of lights and 
shades can do. 

In no other country, is the effect of the 
moonlight so magical as within the belt of 
the Equator. Everything far and near is 
visibly defined; shadows and light fall 
alike. The Temple of white alabaster 
glows as if lighted by the rays of the sun. 
The graceful colonnades are touched with 
the glinting hues as of electricity, which 
delay not, but glide up, up, up, until it 
twines itself in and out of the lily-crowned 
pediment. Neither is the color of the flower 
changed. The stately palm has lost none 
of its lacey contour, nor the richness of its 
velvety green. The smooth, dustless 


194 


Her Bungalow. 

streets glitter in the moon-tinted whiteness. 
Like a band of ribbon they wind in and 
about the tropical-flowered gardens which 
adorn the broad plateau. Borders of palms 
and ferns mirror themselves in the depths 
of the lagoon. Now and then, a picturesque 
boat laden with belated sight-seers glides 
swiftly from under the bridges which join 
one garden to the other. 

It is the night of the last day of the 
great Atlantian Feast. The city sleeps. 
The great throng of people rest. 

The midnight sky is white and pale. 
The beautiful city is wrapt in ghostlike 
stillness. Silence floods and baptizes the 
people, the city and the moon-glistened 
bay. It permeates with ominous forebod- 
ing the entire land. The starry chimes 
and angelic choir thrill with sonorous voice 
the midnight air, and silently chords with 
the tone of its own majestic anthem. 

As Isis watches in the utter stillness, 
the vibrant ether trembles upon her psychic 
sense. From far over-head, there gathers 


/In /Itlaniian Dlcmory. 195 

into vision a group of celestial guardians of 
the Temple, at first faint, then growing 
more and more plainly defined they advance 
nearer and nearer to her. She sees this 
without a turn of the head or the slightest 
shifting of attitude. They come nearer, 
and finally, are so near, she can distinguish 
their whispered words. They gather as 
thickly and closely about her, as when they 
surrounded and guarded, the Bungalow. 
In the soft, musical accents of the secret 
language of the Three, they whisper of 
coming events of which Isis has had cog- 
nizance. The whisper floating out on the 
silent air, sinks deeply into her heart and 
confirms that of which she is already sure. 
The host lingers but a moment. In a semi- 
circle resting in mid-air, their faces radiant 
with the great ocean of light, they voice the 
invocation : 

“Oh, Holy Night, mantle the Universe 
with Thy dark garment; rest oh, people, in 
the sublime darkness of its shadow ! Oh, 
Sovereign Queen, protect and cover the whole 


196 


Her Bungalow. 

race with thy tender and cooling wings! 
Oh, Light of Night, fill them as an urn 
overflowing with blessings, until they are 
akin to the stars ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


T HROUGH an archway, partly cur- 
tained by rich draperies, can be 
seen the interior of a spacious apart- 
ment. The room is dimly lighted by 
the mellow radiance of perfumed tapers, 
which always burn herein. The floor is of 
mosaic marble, faintly tinted with rose hues. 
Upon this rare carpet deftly inlaid with 
precious metals, figures of graceful naiads 
grow more and more intense as one gazes 
upon their polish, until they almost glow 
into life. In the center of the room, a 
fountain constantly plays around a group 
of dolphins, cooling the atmosphere. The 
sweet chorus of its tiny water-notes gently 
splash an ever-changing refrain, which 
swells and lessens on the air, as they sing in 
gleeful gladness the wonderful song of 
spiritual freedom. 

A shelving running entirely around the 
room holds in graceful order, statues, long 


198 Her Bungalow, 

necked bronzes, silver and gold pitchers, 
vases and ornate objects of the rarest value. 
These have been brought from ports of 
many countries, for the special adornment 
of this room. The shelving forms a frieze 
around the wall. Suspended from this, 
silken draperies and tapestries cover the 
walls, falling from ceiling to floor. 

Glancing at the exquisite beauty of 
detail in the rare interior; the blending of 
ivory, gold and orientalism is entrancing. 
Becoming accustomed to the form of the 
room there is noticed an absence of all 
harsh corners and abrupt lines. Thus is 
shown, how the brusqueness of physical 
life may fade into the harmonies of the 
spiritual. The room is a complete oval; 
longer in one diameter than the other. It 
so rests upon the floor, as if one side had 
been planed away. The height, by an 
unknown combination of dimensions, as 
also from the finishing of the room, gives 
the appearance of a greater altitude than it 
really possesses. The curved ceiling with 


/In /Itlanlian Memory. 199 

its lapus laziila tints, seems like a bit of the 
blue dome of heaven. Couches and otto- 
mans fill the oval sides, leaving the center 
bare, cool and restful. This unbounded 
luxuriance of color and warmth suggest and 
typify Nature’s presence, in the first flush 
of perfected expression. 

The ego, largely responsible for its own 
environment, has the privilege given it to 
draw unto itself the perfect things of earth, 
in proportion to its own perfecting and 
faithfulness. The thought forces reaching 
out along the lines of spiritual attainment, 
open the germ cells of the physical brain, 
which vibrate with latent potentiality in 
every function of the body. It only awaits 
the impact of Universal Thought energy to 
kindle into expression the spark, which 
becomes the immortal soul of the spiritual- 
ized atom. Thus man waits, and opens the 
door for further spiritualization. At the 
same time he gathers for himself, for both 
his body and soul, the consciousness of 
existence. This power, manipulated by the 


200 


Her Bungalow. 

God within, lifts the veil of physical con- 
tact, and reveals unto himself and others, 
the presence of Potency in every act and 
detail of earth life. 

This potency is a symbol of accomplish- 
ment, along the path leading into the 
possession of such luxuries. It is not the 
possession which weights the ego to earthly 
conditions. The evil comes, when the ego 
is made unhappy by the lack of them. 
That which hurts, is the concession by the 
Higher Self, to the illusiveness of need. It 
is this, which seems to beggar one’s soul. 
The ego can be so polarized, that neither 
possession nor non-possession can swerve it 
from its steady on-moving persistence. 

It is a God-given privilege to enjoy 
belongings that come into the life, from the 
very force and potency of the lines upon 
which the life is builded. 

The whitening moon lights the colon- 
nade upon which the watcher stands. It 
casts its beams aslant, into this ideal apart- 
ment, which is suggestive of the wisdom 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 201 

and the whiteness, and presence of her who 
is its occupant. Its luminous light, its 
oval form, its harmony of color, hint at the 
possibilities of a soul which has been 
colored on one side, by all the pamperings; 
and on the other by all the obstructions of 
earth life. It has thereby, grown weary of 
the illusiveness of tangible possessions — a 
soul illumined through overcoming, by the 
life that descended from above, not up from 
the earth. When so illumined, the person- 
ality rises and merges into the individual- 
ity. The soul is thus enabled to stoop and 
help those who are still struggling for lib- 
eration, along the same path. We are all 
rays from the great eye of Ra! It is only 
by differentiation of mentality, that lives 
are made incongruous. Some have well 
adjusted habitations, not of material splen- 
dor alone, but such homes as suggest that 
home is a dwelling place of the heart as 
well as the soul. There, the Mother Life is 
the Home Queen ! 

Thus she, the High Priestess of the 


202 Her Bungalow. 

Temple, Isis, the Vestal of the Sacred Fire 
stands leaning against a marble Venus of 
one of the caryatides. Looking seaward, 
she is pondering over the events of the few 
past days and of the on-coming ones. A 
woman of strong, lithe proportions; above 
the medium height; but carrying by sym- 
metry of outline an impression of greater 
statue. Her face perfect in contour, is as 
fair and smooth, as if carved from the same 
stuff as the inert form which now supports 
her supple physique. From this face, the 
still power shines, giving the impress of 
reserve potency and energy, that can come 
but from the Gods alone. The curved lips 
bespeak her artistic nature; her dark eyes 
veiling imperious fires; which, when the 
lids lift, flash forth fresh inspiration. Her 
reddish bronze hair, falls in long braids and 
blends in tint with her flame-colored peplus. 

She has thrown aside the outer veil and 
mantle of the altar service, and lo, once 
more the Wanderer of the Ages ! Who, 
seeking through all the lives has strength- 


fln /Martian Memory. 203 

ened the bond of soul and spirit, by the 
putting aside of no offered duty ; the refus- 
ing of no burden that should have been 
borne! 

Thus, she wistfully gazes. She courts 
the kisses of the breeze, wafting westward 
from the great, soft seas. Her robes, toyed 
with by the zephyrs, give forth a soft effect, 
as a bed of coals, scintillates into little flames 
and flashes of firelight. This effect is created 
by the shimmering of a flame-colored robe 
worn under a peplus of sheeny tissues. 
Every motion reveals flashes and glints of 
the masked color beneath, as if her body 
was formed of the Fire which she symbol- 
izes, worships and serves. She wears but a 
single ornament. A necklace of amethysts 
and opals, fastened snugly about her 
shapely throat, clasped by a blood red ruby, 
as rich in color as a drop of her own pure 
blood. It trembles and vibrates under the 
influence of the forces, like the pulsating 
heart of a great nation. Her bared arms 
and shoulders, are as exquisite in propor- 


204 Her Bungalow. 

tion, as those of the marble Venus against 
which she rests. The rich ivory of her 
skin contrasts strongly with the cold white 
of the marble. Her brow is thoughtful; 
the disquieted depths of her golden brown 
eyes, sweep the broad expanse, until they 
take in the whole beauty of the scene; then 
rest for a moment, upon the shining waters; 
again far out to the Southwest, they are 
conscious of the fires from the never dying 
furnaces, even now burning and glowing as 
fiercely as a freshly kindled Inferno. 

The scene is one of quiet and silence. 

The fishing smacks and galleys rest in 
apathetic durance, after the day’s activity. 
The waters are as unruffled as though they 
had never perchance, madly tossed the 
same crafts beyond the anchorage of their 
own safe harbor. All the outer world rests 
in fancied peace and security. 

But Isis, she, who was born of a race of 
sibyls, knows a woeful tragedy hangs omin- 
ously over her beloved city. She is not 
permitted to part the veil that hides the 


/In /Ulantian Memory. 205 

swiftly on-coming from tlie now. But as a 
messenger from the Gods, her last warn- 
ing has been given, and was unheeded. 
And* now, as she looks down upon the 
white tents with their sleeping occupants, 
her heart thrills and vibrates in unison with 
her doomed nation. Her soul swells in 
anguish; and the blood red ruby pulsates 
in rythmic oneness with her own vibratory 
action. Throbbing the underlying refrain 
of the mournful cadence of Him, who cen- 
turies later moaned: “Oh, Jerusalem! 
Jerusalem! How often would I have gath- 
ered thee, as a hen gathers her chickens 
under her wings, and ye would not.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


T HE moon, in all the dignity of. her 
celestial rights, has reached the 
zenith. The starry satelites, in 
attendance upon their Queen, glorify 
the Temple, the city and courts, in the light 
shed from ^ their midnight luster. Isis 
stands in the direct ray of the heavenly, 
crystal flood. The air is weighted with the 
perfume of myriad blossoms. She listens 
for a voice, with the wafting of every breeze. 

But, hark! Breaking the stillness of 
the hour, far away through the arches of 
the long colonnade, is heard the faint, firm 
tread of some one approaching. Nearer 
and nearer ; steadily and more firmly they 
echo along the vast galleries. They move 
as evenly and regularly, as events march 
down the corridors of time, marking off 
minutes and seconds by the heart beats of a 
people. Nearer and nearer still, they 
approach her, who is now the Waiting One! 


J\n fltlantian Memory. 207 

At the sound of the soft, familiar foot- 
step, her heart throbs less mournfully. 
The great weight, and measureless yearn- 
ing for her nation falls from her. She feels 
less lonely. Soon again, the sound of the 
voice, that has thrilled her with words of 
love, worthy to be offered to the Gods, will 
utter in her ears the oft-time repeated story. 
Gladness is in her eyes. The singing of a 
song is in her heart. The internal emo- 
tions of the soul impede her breath, as 
from among the columns and statues, the 
High Priest, in all the simplicity of his real 
self, steps to her side. 

Magnificent in attainment; as sound 
physically as mighty in mentality; the 
prince of Magicians; the king of Adepts; 
he stands at last in the light and overshad- 
owing of her presence. The trappings of 
the ceremonial feast have been laid aside. 
His sleeveless vestment of soft, white stuff, 
a pattern of iris wrought in gold, covers his 
well defined physique. He wears upon his 
head a close fitting cap of hammered gold, a 


208 


Her Bungalow. 

jeweled serpent coils around the edge of it. 
His brow arched over his splendid eyes. 
His rich, dark skin is the impersonation of 
strength and wisdom. Approaching nearer, 
until standing face to face, hands clasping 
hands he spake to her thus : 

“ Greeting ! Oh, Thou divinity of mine ! 
Greeting to the divine Isis! I knew that I 
should find thee here, and hastened to pour 
oblations of joy and happiness at thy feet. 
Now that I look once more into thine eyes, 
my soul is rapt in silence, before thee! 
The Holy Isis!” 

With ineffable pathos and gladness, the 
peerless vestal loosens her hands from his 
clasp and in her voice of divinest treble, says : 

“Oh, thou god Osiris! The light of 
my soul! Speak not to me now of thy 
love! But listen, ah, listen again, while I 
whisper to thee of coming ill. Of that 
which will surely befall our city and coun- 
try, unless thou listenest to the message 
sent from the gods by the angels. Thou 
art a sovereign of true magic. Thy gift 


/In illlantian fllemory. 209 

has been given thee through the develop- 
ment of thine own inner and loftier nature. 
Thou hast in thy keeping the wisdom of 
the ages ; the royal secret of Arcane know- 
ledge. Again I lift my voice in warning. 
It is a voice coming from the immortal 
Hathor, that speaks through me. Listen 
and harken ! Beware, the attempt to wrest 
from the hands of Almighty God, that 
which is held aloof from men. Thou art 
allied to the fount of life. Turn not the 
sweet wine, flowing therefrom, into the 
bitterness of Marah, for the sake of thy 
selfish desires! Look, oh thou Prince, my 
master! Behold our people; they rest 
peacefully with the assurance that we are 
their helpers. Shall we, through the pow- 
ers granted by the gods, give them bitter 
fruit to eat and stagnant waters to drink? 
Nay! Beware! Beware! So say the great 
gods!” 

The gentle but firm face of the priest 
looked steadily into the heart of the blood- 
red ruby, that holds the prismatic gems 


210 


Her Bungalow. 

around the throat of the High Priestess. 
They two stand as if in one aura. The 
solemn night hour lends enchantment to 
the mystical glory of the moment. Silence, 
out of the everlasting, drapes itself closer 
and closer about them. The warning of 
the gods is first in her thoughts. The aura 
of self-attainment, clouded the hitherto 
clear vision of Osiris. As the murmured 
syllables of warning pass her prophetic lips, 
their mournful sound seems more awesome 
than the still, small voice of the Angel of 
Death. A crooning plash, as of the waters 
before the storm, echoed and re-echoed in 
the silence about them. Through and over 
all, was felt rather than heard, the muffled 
accents of thousands of millions, who wait- 
ing the out-come, repeated over and over 
the words : 

“ Beware! oh, beware! and so say the 
great gods! ” 

The night birds sing their weird melody ; 
the long waves lap the rim of the gracefully 
curved shore of the doomed Atlantis. 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 211 

“ Atlantis, oli Atlantis, mother of the 
nations! Thou shalt fall at thy zenith. ” 

So cries the silent euphony of the Four 
Great Angels. So speaks the unvoiced 
messenger in the ears of the High Priest. 
Still he gazes into the heart of the ruby, 
intoxicated, heeding not the voice that 
spake to him, and him alone. 

“Oh, thou blessed of the gods! Speak 
not to me as thy Master! No longer are 
we in position of master and pupil. We 
stand together as helpers. The dual glory 
rests upon us as one. The mystical union 
of the two forces has consumated the great 
sacrament. We have stood together, be- 
hind the Veil of Isis, and before the mysti- 
cal altar of the divine marriage. Hence- 
forth, whither thou goest I will go. And 
what thou sayest, sinks deep into my heart, 
and I fain would listen to thy wisdom. But 
the word has been spoken. The fiat has 
been sounded. Ere another moon rises 
over yon horizon, the forces of the Three, 
the Five, and the Seven concentrated as 


212 


Her Bungalow. 

never before, binding into one imperious 
command every atom of potency that can 
be gathered from our whole people, will 
seek to know and demand whence comes 
life to man. In our calculation we find but 
one impending obstacle. This may be the 
last secret held back from man, if so, we 
shall meet denial and its consequences. 
But ah, my Isis, it cannot be. Knowledge 
must be infinite. This, however, matters 
not. It is the turning of the die. If we fail, 
the loss is ours. If we succeed, the prize is 
beyond computation of value.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


T HESE words, so confident of success, 
were to Isis as resonant with music, 
as the singing of yon night bird. 
They intoxicate her senses as would 
the wine brewed from the distant vineyard. 
They fill her soul with the spirit of sweet 
forgetfulness, and take away the awfulness 
of that which is before her. 

“This then,” she said: “Is the cause 
of the veil spreading over the future out- 
come of this event. I have never known 
the current of coming events, flowing so 
near, so indistinctly outlined. I fear me, oh 
Brother of the highest, that the glimpse we 
have had through the mercy of the Most 
High God, of coming calamity is very near 
upon us. But come weal or woe, gladness 
or sorrow ; where thou art there I will be. 
This I swear by the sacred symbol that 
encircles thy brow. Thou shalt forever 
have the support of hands that seem weak 


214 


Her Bungalow. 

and powerless, but which are upheld by the 
force and power of the Ever Existent. If 
we go hence under the ban of the All Pow- 
erful, we will go together. As thy lot, so 
shall be mine.” 

Leaning then, toward her, for one last 
look into her wistful eyes, he said : 

“The day breaks o’er yonder hills, fare- 
well thou wise one. Be not dismayed, the 
morning sun will bring thee fresh hope. 
May it also bring thee all that is resplend- 
ent in mind, body and soul. May the 
angelic melodies ever flowing from the Holy 
of Holies, be the benison of thy life, fare- 
well.” 

As the two watchers linger thus, for a 
moment, in the fading moonlight, a marvel- 
ous transformation passes over them. As 
the face of the one, so became the face of 
the other. 

The ruby glittered and took upon itself 
a deeper dye of crimson. Ever and anon, 
beads of its own essential essence gathered 
upon its surface, which falling by their 


/In /ttlantian Memory. 215 

own weight, to her imagination, seemed 
like drops of blood wrung from the human 
heart. But as they fall upon her white 
robe they leave no trace there. Thus 
human forms come and go, leaving no 
marks save in the key note of the mentality. 

All nature is white and silent. The 
Priestess lifts the curtain, turns, and looks 
upon the moonlit sea, the last time for many 
aeons to come. The pallid coolness chills. 
She drops the curtain behind her, shutting 
out forever the beauty of an Atlantian 
night. 

At this moment, the Dreamer sees the 
moon hide herself behind a heavy cloud, as 
if to veil from vision the swiftly on-coming 
sequence of events. 

Good night fair vestal! The morning 
will dawn again. But not until thou shalt 
stand behind the Gates of Paradise. Wilt 
thou know the full extent of the dawning ! 

The casket of thy memory will be 
locked and the key removed. Hoary ages 
will add to their numbers. The history of 


216 


Her Bungalow. 

thy fair country will fade into the sem- 
blance of mythical legends, before thou 
shalt be able again to raise the dusty veil of 
forgetfulness, now falling between thee and 
thine. 

Passing into the dim light of the oval 
chamber, alone, she is denuded of the cour- 
age that possessed her, while in the pres- 
ence of the High Priest Osiris. She is 
appalled at her own prediction ; at the sacri- 
lege which had been hers in apostrophizing 
him, the leader of the mighty Three. She 
had but obeyed the gods. The quality of 
her faith had upheld her through many 
earthly battles. So now, the knowledge 
still upholds her that nothing could be so 
inharmonious, but that a thought breathed 
out of the pure ether, laden with love could 
adjust and make right. But exhausted 
and overwrought, by the events of the day, 
she sinks hopelessly upon her knees, as 
though sinking into the great unknown. 
In her anguish she beat her breast. In 
her humility, her bead sinks lower and 


J \ n /Ulantian Memory. 217 

lower, and then in despair she exclaims: 

“Oh, Atlantis! Beloved of my bosom, 
art thou really doomed ? Thou glory of all 
lands! The wisdom of all nations is con- 
centered within the walls of thy temples! 
Is thy fate forever sealed !” 

The waters of the fountain rise and fall 
and break in mournful sobs at her feet. 
Her strength deserts her more and more. 
Her heart straightened with emotion, she at 
last lifts up her voice, as one crying in the 
wilderness, and moans in broken tones: 

“Oh, thou only true and holy God, 
beside whom, there are none like Thee! 
Lead me through green pastures and still 
waters, that I may be refreshed and strength- 
ened for that which is written! Let the 
light of Thy countenance shine upon me! 
Lift the veil from my dazed sight, that I 
may look again upon the immortal vision 
of Peace! Open Thine arms, that I may be 
borne on the broad wings of Thy love into 
illimitable space, receiving from Thee 
eternal peace! For I am Thy child! ” 


218 Her Bungalow. 

Thus she is lifted to her couch and falls 
asleep in the faith of eternal day, and in 
the presence of the angels. She hears the 
far off music of the angelic choir. She feels 
their soothing breath, as they fold their 
wings about her. Sweetly and gently the 
mysterious veil falls. The shadows lift, 
her eyelids close. She is at home with the 
seraphs, and sees her soul clothed in its 
own white radiance. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


N OT so easily satisfied, the High 
Priest Osiris. Bold, confident and 
brilliant, he strode down the long 
corridor, to his own apartment. 
There, laying aside his outer vestment and 
golden cap, he wraps his body in a long, 
white woolen garment. Holding within 
his spirit the priceless gem of Arcane know- 
ledge, he is the manifestation of soul power 
over elemental force. The acquisition of 
the most occult and mystic knowledge ever 
known, belongs to him and his co-workers. 
By the silent power of thought he lifts him- 
self higher and higher, and also gives to 
the people, grade by grade, as rapidly as 
can be assimilated, that which shall lift 
them to a higher advancement. 

The mightiest secrets of the Universe 
are in keeping of the Three. The time 
has come when no longer satisfied, selfish 
desires engulf and drown, the higher aims 


220 


Her Bungalow. 

of the leaders, who have everywhere scat- 
tered knowledge abroad. They look once 
too often toward the self. Dazzled by the 
brightness of illumination, they lose sight 
of their hitherto unselfish purpose — the 
lifting of all men to greatest heights. The 
unchanging law: “thus far shalt thou go 
and no farther” fades from the memory of 
these rulers. Their mentality dazed, the 
waves of the mighty sea breaking against 
the silent resistance of a rock-bound coast, 
cease to utter their warning. 

The command has gone forth, the 
Assembly is called in session at low twelve. 

Osiris is already due in the secret 
Chamber of the Tower. But as if held by 
the Omnipotent hand of an archangel, he 
paces up and down his own private room. 
He listens to the still, small voice, of his 
higher consciousness. He hesitates to go 
hence, whence he will never return holding 
the same power of vibration. Either a 
defeated, fallen angel, or wearing the crown 
of absolute Omniscience ! Which shall it be ? 


/2n /Itlnnlinn Memory. 221 

Again, lie lost sight of the fact that his 
real power lay, in keeping the angel within 
him awakened, the angel which denies him 
no knowledge. By active energy on the 
exoteric, as well as the esoteric plane, we 
arouse the slumbering atoms which are 
incorporated in our soul building. 

In vain did the wail of the people, should 
failure result, resound through the con- 
sciousness of his being. In vain, did the 
vision of Isis, clothed in diaphanous draper- 
ies of the astral world, plead for that which 
she knew could end in but one way. All 
else is put aside, save the demand upon the 
Most High that the secret and mysterious 
essentials, of the coiled spring of life con- 
tained in the Logos: “Let there be,” 
should be given the Three. 

So, sweeping aside all else save the one 
demand, he regains his former self. Pro- 
ceeding without delay and with the swift- 
ness and perfect poise of an eagle, he hast- 
ens to the eyrie in the topmost pinnacle of 
the Temple. 


222 


Her Bungalow. 

Soliloquizing, lie said: “ There can be 
no failure. Our preparation bas been care- 
fully made. Computations are accurately 
wrought out for the auspicious hour. The 
hour has come. Have we not already 
reached the Veil separating us from the 
whiteness of the Immediate Presence! 
Have we not proved ourselves masters of 
the elements; of all lawful and unseen 
knowledge? Why can we not, by our most 
potent skill rend the Veil and enter unher- 
alded the throne-room, of Him whom no 
man has looked upon and lived? Thus 
panoplied, with the consciousness of pre- 
vious achievement, he ushers himself into 
the secret session of the Three. 

Confidently, their call rang out along 
the currents of the Universe. Confidently, 
the word of power echoed from rank to rank, 
through the embattled hosts of God’s 
angels; wherever manifestation be. 

Thus they sat, with face and features 
fixed and firm. The hours crept on and 
on; still they moved not; pale, rigid, 


/In /Klantian Memory. 223 

immovable and implacable in purpose. 
The Four Great Angels, guardians of this 
sacred Chamber, became transformed into 
the fury of the elements. Darkness, instead 
of dawn, crept in upon them. Still they 
held the same key of vibration. Silently, 
potently, the hour of a new birth approached. 
Unconsciously, they were handling an 
unknown force, the adjustment of a strange 
vibration, resultant of Creative Thought. 

At last, the word of the Omnipotent, 
already spoken, had gone forth wliereunto 
it was sent. 

The sun rose heavy and sodden. Like 
a ball of fiery blood it rested on the Eastern 
horizon. Clouds interrupt the clearness of 
the sky. They deepen and darken as the 
morning creeps on. After years of durance 
the elemental storm of the tropics bursts its 
fetters. The people are awed, but comfort 
themselves, that it will soon spend itself as 
hitherto. They know not, the scepter has 
slipped from the hands of the rulers. 


224 Her Bungalow. 

The Wise ones look at each other in 
amazed horror; they have no key to the 
events of this immense tragedy that has 
bounded so bewilderingly upon them. They 
had called it into manifestation, and so 
destroyed the balancing and adjustment of 
Nature’s law. The rocking earth vibrates 
and trembles as the day wears on. 

When the Three awaken from their 
long vigil in the Borderland, lo, they behold 
the fury of the Great Builders. Instead of 
the radiant and brilliant vision that was 
wont to meet their eyes, they perceive the 
awfulness of a power ready and able to 
defend Itself against usurpation. Their 
faces no longer reflect the light of Love. 
Strict justice sternly darkens, veiling the 
Omnipotent, demanding expiation for diso- 
bedience. Thus the One, through its, awful 
ministers, protects forever and forever Its 
sovereign oneness. 

In a paralysis of dread and fear, the 
Three fall upon the marble floor, crushed 
with awful defeat. The surety of ages of 


/In fltlantian Memory. 225 

darkness and expiation, is theirs. There 
they lay pinioned, palsied, unable to help 
those who are waiting, to hear a word of 
hope issue from lips that have never before 
failed them. They are, in their fateful 
quarters, more helpless than the people. 
Are they not shut, for uncounted centuries, 
from the light and love of companionship? 

For days, the gates of heaven were open. 
The warring elements became a continuous 
cyclone. Universal darkness enshrouds 
the proud city. The down-pour of one day 
is but the repetition of all other days. 

Lashed on by the fury of the winds, the 
waters roll higher and higher. But now, 
the quaking earth is known to have been 
sinking, from the effect of an abnormal 
vibration, which had wrenched it from the 
polarity of its axis. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


T HE treasures of centuries are buried 
beneath the angry waters. Few 
have withstood the wild, tragic 
cataclysm of the first days of the 
disastrous upheaval. All who could, had 
fled to the mountain tops. Even they, were 
overtaken but too shortly. Where once 
stood the alabaster Tower, is but a tottering 
column, stained and blotted with the muddy, 
leaping, blood-stained waters. The groans 
of the martyred people, had long since been 
smothered by the shrieking winds, and 
roaring waves. The muffled echoes of the 
groaning, sinking earth is the only sound 
that can be distinguished, above the requiem 
of the maddened, rumbling waters. 

The periphery of accomplishment had 
been attained. The records of thousands 
of years were overwhelmed beneath the 
carnage of the storm-tossed elements. The 
bellowing thunder, the glittering lightning, 


/In /Itlantian Memory. 227 

throb and sweep over the habitation of the 
once liberty-loving country. All else is 
silenced. All returns to the darkness of the 
Silent Land whence it came. 

The waters had long since lost their 
limpid hues. They rise higher and higher, 
grow more and more opaque, laden with a 
heavier and heavier burden of thick mud, 
gathered from the depths of the unpolarized 
conditions. 

Isis alone, still survives of all the potent 
band of the Great Temple. She is now 
separated from all she loves best. Mad- 
dened by her own loneliness, she rushes 
toward the stair-case leading to the upper 
chambers. At every angle, she is stopped 
and faced by groups of men, women and 
children, huddled together at the highest 
point of safety they dare encroach upon, 
even in this hour of disaster and terror. 
No use! There is no place in all that 
mighty Temple, or in the secluded Tower, 
that is too high, too sacred, or too pure, for 
the waters to embrace and submerge within 


228 Her Bungalow* 

their capacious maw. With all the magical 
wisdom and mesmeric enchantment, that 
has been sent forth from the charmed walls 
of the secret chambers, there is now no 
power to keep out the watery element. It 
dashes with loftier waves and creeps with 
rapidly hastening approach, closer and 
closer to the Tower’s heights. 

Isis looks upon the crouching groups, 
and hesitates to proceed further. Why go 
on? Had not the power and potency left 
her? Were not the invincible Three pros- 
trate upon their faces, crying, when too 
late, “Thy Will, not mine!” No longer 
are they potent. For they had forgotten, 
no true power can be attained until the 
human Will is blended and attuned with 
the Universal. Their Wills, once so insis- 
tent and dominant, are palsied. They know 
they are in the grasp of the Omnipotent, 
whose Will has become to them a supreme 
law. If they could only forget! But the 
knowledge which made them rulers among 
men and the angels, will be wiped from 


/In /Wantian Memory. 229 

their memory. The darkness! Oh, the 
darkness! The agony of the silence that 
vibrates not, throughout the whole extent 
of its stifling enfoldment! God’s suprem- 
acy will finally be the consummation of man’s 
desire; for what He does, man as a part of 
Him will do. 

The waters roll on! Isis raises her 
dazed vision and locked hands, to heaven 
for guidance. When lo, far away above 
her, she sees the form of the young acolyte, 
smiling, entranced, transfigured by the 
glimpse of the Borderland, which his soul, 
now no longer imprisoned, has already 
caught sight of. It seems to say : “ Come 

higher! Follow thou me!” 

Even in this hour of Gethsemane, re- 
newed aspiration, for a moment lent strength 
to her feet. She struggles once more to 
gain a footing on the once polished floors, 
now slimy and slippery with mud and 
devastation. At last, struggling she rises 
to the full height of her wonderful and 
majestic figure. Bidding the people cease 


230 Her Bungalow. 

their cries and die as they had lived, she 
tittered the words of the great Masters: 
“ Peace be still. My Peace I give unto you.” 
For a moment, heart-broken, bereft of 
reason, they grow passive under the won- 
derful spell of her magical voice. She, of 
all the brilliant race of god-like men and 
women remains polarized, in the midst of 
carnage and death. She alone saw the 
agony of the Three. She alone knew their 
anguish. For, as the darkness increased 
in the outer, her inner vision became clearer. 
Still she groped her way to the Tower, to 
the door of the Secret Chamber. In vain, 
she searched for the body of the beautiful 
and youthful acolyte; only the Aspiration 
he inspired is left within her. 

At last, she stands before the door and 
knocks. With a voice fast breaking with 
sobs, she cries to the High Priest: 

“Come, oh, come with me! Let us go 
hence together! Once more listen to my 
appeal. Let us go into Paradise looking 
into the eyes of each!” 


231 


An fltlantinn Memory. 

No sound came forth, save the smothered 
groans of the humiliated priests. Again 
the darkening terror of Gethsemane drops 
upon her. Her soul shrinks with all the 
horror born of fear, from the crimson waves. 
They now lap the topmost pinnacle of the 
Tower, and soon will enshroud her in their 
fathomless folds. She quakes under the 
pressure of the darkness and loneliness, and 
the rocking vibration of the fast sinking 
earth. She leans against the Tower wall, 
listening for the sound of the voice of him 
who failed to attend to her word of warning. 
In her anguish, she cries out once again 
for a sight of the priceless presence of his 
personality. She entreats that the “ light 
which is brighter than day” may make 
plain the way into the mysterious Beyond. 

She feels the touch of the water upon 
her sandaled feet. It stains her hitherto 
spotless robes. It dashes in sullen strength 
to her knees. She feels its chilling power. 
She clings with all her strength to the door 
latchet. She yields moment by moment, 


232 


Her Bungalow. 

more and more to the overmastering and 
mystical potency, of the Father of Souls 
and all the elements. 

At the last wierd and fateful moment, 
she falls upon her knees before the door of 
the earthly tabernacle, breathing and sob- 
bing the farewell of a human heart. As 
far as her distended eyes can reach, she sees 
only water, waste and desolation. She 
clings with still more force, but calmly, to 
the door latchet. No longer able to rest 
upon her knees, the lapping waves lift her 
to her feet. For the last time, above the 
lashing waters, there arises the dulcet mel- 
ody of a voice — His voice. Its sweetness 
sounds as do the chords of a well-tuned 
instrument in a sea of discord. It whispers 
of courage! It shouts a triumphant hos- 
anna! It melts the heart with its tones of 
everlasting love! It gives the promise that 
the semblance of separation soon will be for- 
ever swept away ! 

The wailing notes tremble through the 
thick and muddy atmosphere, dying away 


/In /Ulantinn Memory. 233 

in distanceless space, as would tlie broken 
and twanging strings of an Hjolian Harp. 
’Tis the final chord struck by the hand of 
Destiny, in two lives polarized to the same 
key. The last earthly note is out of tune ! 
But, as it echoes in the distance, the angelic 
choir takes up the ever-changeful vibration; 
the invisible choir mingles its voice with 
human suffering. The last string upon 
the Harp snaps with its final doleful melody ! 
The Harper has struck the closing chord; 
the sharp dissonance of the strings is lost 
amidst the desolate noise of earthly ele- 
ments I 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


L ONG since, darkness has fallen 
between. Enfolding them, as the 
gathering mists had swirled around 
and separated them, when leaving the 
gates of Paradise. As the surging water 
rolls back, revealing for the last time the 
sinking Tower, again the voice from the 
depths, echoes through space, calling: 

“Oh, Isis! The IS-IS ! I come! I 
come! Let me rise with thee! Lift me 
with thy own sacred Divinity ! ” 

Never before in the history of all the 
worlds, have any souls left the life with a 
consciousness of a failure of such magnifi- 
cent proportions. A failure destined to be 
the foundation of all the success the earth 
has ever known since. The Finite had 
matched itself against the Infinite. Mani- 
festation demanded the why of the Mani- 
festor. The part struggled to become the 


An /Illantian Memory. 235 

wliole and, thereby, to reverse all Creative 
Law. The immensity of the attempt miti- 
gated the severity of the effect. They who 
thus sought, may in the Future Ages exer- 
cise the birthright of Eternal Life and the 
deathlessness of the soul. It will be when they 
have eradicated from memory, all the steps 
by which desire and intellect placed them 
naked and defenseless, before the Great 
White Throne of the One, Who is All. 
This is the one path of return. On that, 
only, the mighty leaders of the massed 
thought of the earth can, in silence and 
loneliness, await development through the 
unfolding of ages to come. 

Now, See! The finishing of the Vision! 

For a moment, the spent storm ceases 
its fury. For a second of time, the sun 
pierces the thick shadows of the heavy 
clouds. Moving along its single beam, 
rising up and out into the spaceless ether, 
behold, two luminous blue spheres ! Higher 
and higher they float; on into the limitless 


236 Her Bungalow. 

beyond — into tbe unsolved mysteries of 
Eternal Life. 

As they attain the supernal heights, in 
the Far-Off is the bright Star, resplendent 
in a glory of its own. It is the Star of 
Hope — the Beginning of the New. It 
beckons on the United Duality to the Bun- 
galow. All outlines are becoming stronger 
and stronger, under the beneficent, golden 
light now covering the whole top of the 
Mount of Transmutation. Above the en- 
trance of the Bungalow, the White Dove 
of Omnipotent Forgiveness, awaits the 
approach. It poises on wings of the Peace 
born out of the Storm. In its beak, it 
tenders the green, olive branch, of the 
Father’s ever-abiding Love. Out of the 
storm, which has scattered the living germs 
of possibility throughout the world, is born 
man’s renewal of Life. 

The Wandering and Waiting Souls thus 
move toward the door of the Bungalow — 
Temple of the Higher Self! In its com- 
prehending simplicity, it has become the 


iln Sltlantian IDcniory. 237 

germ cell of all other Temples. In its 
inwrapt possibilities, the Universe itself 
awaits the expression of the power of 
Transmutation. 

On the threshold, before the Veil of the 
Ever-Existent, the Two linger but for a 
space, out of the Eternities. No longer 
Dual but Unified ! 

Oh, Heart of all Mystery! The mighty 
Veil parts without hands. They enter 
within. The cycle is complete. The outer 
has become the inner. Once more together 
they enter Paradise! 

The soft lips of Memory press closely 
the ear of the Sleeping Woman, whispering: 
“ Awake 1” 

Slowly, and more slowly still, through 
returning consciousness the Dreamer 
arouses to the sentient ideation, of stepping 
out of the shadow of sense illusion, into the 
Real and Soul-Life. So does the butterfly, 
bursting its chrysalis prison, come forth a 
type of Immortality. 


238 


Her Bungalow. 

As the rose-tipped, close-folded wings of 
Memory unfold from about her, the Dreamer 
finds she is already ascending the Mount of 
Transmutation. Her starry wings spread 
wide! The Bungalow crowns its Infinite 
summit! The seven Amens echo from the 
angel choir! The shining Veil sheds its 
golden rays upon her returning conscious- 
ness ! The boy Horus standing upon the 
apex calls : 

“ Come up higher ! ” 

She Awakes ! No more mystery ! The 
soul is on its upward Journey ! 

The Woman stirs; opens her eyes; rises 
to her full height in the Light and Fresh- 
ness of a NEW-BORN DAY ! ! ! 



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